


Wild Nights, Wild Nights

by PersephonesGrace



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Behavioral Analysis Unit (Criminal Minds), Blood and Injury, Blood and Torture, Denial of Feelings, Discussions Surrounding Suicide, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, Grief/Mourning, Human Trafficking, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Light BDSM, Light Bondage, Light Dom/sub, Murder, Mutual Pining, Organized Crime, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Requited Unrequited Love, Slow Burn, Smut, Spencer is a soft dork who kind of doms, Torture, Violence, i promise it works, lots of sex and lots of plot!!, mafia, the slowest burn you'll ever read
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:33:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 39
Words: 218,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26207986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PersephonesGrace/pseuds/PersephonesGrace
Summary: “The second his lips touched yours, the roar of bad memories and gruesome crime scenes that always filled the silence in your mind dulled down to a whisper. The darkness of the world faded into an afterthought, barely a blip in the back of your mind. The demons stopped clawing at your throat and settled down to hibernate for the night.For the first time in years, you felt like you could breathe. No amount of booze in the world could have compared to that feeling.You had found a new distraction, a new way to forget, and he was highly addictive.”*Following a particularly grueling case and an unexpected night together, the reader and Spencer Reid become friends-with-benefits: no expectations, no strings attached, nothing more than just using each other for sex.But as the reader and Spencer grow closer despite their best efforts, ghosts from the reader’s past begin overtaking her present, threatening the delicate thing between them. And though their arrangement is just meant to distract them both from the horrors of their day-to-day lives, the reader comes to find that some horrors just refuse to be ignored.Some ghosts just refuse to stay dead.
Relationships: Spencer Reid/Original Female Character(s), Spencer Reid/Reader, Spencer Reid/You
Comments: 501
Kudos: 835





	1. When I Hoped, I Feared

**Author's Note:**

> Hi!
> 
> This fic takes place around season 11 and is set from 2015-2016, but features the season 7 team. I make up all the cases in this fic. It is cross-posted on Wattpad under the username persephonesgrace.
> 
> This is a reader insert story (meaning that it is written in second person, and that the narration is primarily done by Y/N Y/L/N, which stands for "your name" "your last name") If you're reading this on a laptop/desktop, there is a really awesome extension that you can get for google chrome that will actually change "Y/N" "Y/L/N" to whatever you want it to.
> 
> It's called "Interactive Fics." Here is the link: https://chrome.google.com/webstore/detail/interactivefics/pcpjpdomcbnlkbghmchnjgeejpdlonli?hl=en
> 
>  **IF YOU PREFER OC STORIES** : then I will say that the "reader" character in this started out as an OC named **Cassandra Castille** before I turned it into a reader insert fic instead. 
> 
> You can put that into "interactive fics" if you prefer that better. Back when this was an OC story, I personally imagined her as being half East Asian and half Caucasian (because that's what I am lol and I'm super self-indulgent, and also because there's a general lack of like... diversity when it comes to the main character OCs in fanfiction) (think actress Chloe Bennet if you need a reference). That said, there are no physical descriptors for the reader character in this story aside from the fact that she is shorter than Spencer in some capacity and has female anatomy. You can imagine her as whoever you'd like--as yourself, or someone else. That's up to you b.
> 
> And with that, all I have to say is happy reading! I hope you enjoy :)

In your line of work, you were often reminded that the world was bleak, rotating on an axis of darkness that kept it from ever dancing into the light. It was filled with individuals who infected the Earth with evil, and no matter how many killers, rapists, and kidnappers--no matter how many corrupt souls--you helped lock behind bars, there would always be a million more lurking in the shadows and dragging others into the dark with them.

When the plane touched back down in Quantico after this latest, grueling case, you knew you couldn’t return to your empty apartment yet. Not when images of molested and battered children were seared into the backs of your eyelids. No, you wouldn’t be sleeping any time soon.

There were small victories in this case, of course: the pair of killers (a brother duo who got off on torturing prepubescent girls) were found and apprehended. You were able to give closure to seven grieving families. You saved countless future children from falling victim to these twisted fucks.

But small victories often came at the price of larger losses--as in, the last girl they abducted, the girl you were desperately racing against the clock to save, was already mutilated and deceased by the time you got to her. You kept replaying the image of her parents as you had to break the news to them, how the hope faded from their eyes slowly at first, like the sun dipping down over the horizon. And then, absolute darkness followed, without even a single star to offer a shred of light.

You knew it wasn’t your fault, that you had done everything in your power to try and save their little girl. But the sound of her mother’s sobbing and the sound of her father’s screaming “you let her die” roared in your ears as naturally as blood pumped through your heart. 

So now you were sitting at your favorite bar, nursing a beer, planning on getting so wasted that you would hear, see, and remember nothing, at least for a little while.

Because of how brutal the case had been and because of how defeated the entire team was, Hotch had given you all the following day off (provided that nothing urgent came up).

“A day to recuperate,” he’d said. Though he showed nothing, you knew he was just as shaken as the rest of you.

You would have laughed at the comment if you felt like you even had the ability to do so in that moment. “A day to recuperate,” as if a day could erase the feeling of failure that shouldn’t have coated you as much as it did. You got the killers; that should have been enough.

But it was never enough--not for you.

You were debating on whether or not to order another drink or to head home and continue your bender there when a man stopped by your table. You didn’t have to look up to know it was Spencer. His gait, posture, and mannerisms as he approached cued you in enough.

“Hey, Y/N,” he said, one hand gripping the strap of his messenger bag, the other posed in a half wave.

You scoffed a laugh and flicked your eyes up to him. “What, were the libraries already closed, or something?” You didn’t mean to come across so harshly, but you couldn’t stop the bite in your tone. 

If he registered it, he didn’t say anything. Instead, he chuckled and said, “They are, actually. Though, I typically head straight home after a case, anyway.”

“So what are you doing here?” 

Spencer wasn’t one for bars or clubs or any other place where the patrons danced through an alcohol induced haze. He’d come out with the rest of you if you ever got together, but seeing him there out of his own volition, unprompted, meant one of two things to you: either he had followed you here (and waited outside for six minutes: the amount of time it usually took you to finish your first drink) out of his own concern, or he was royally fucked up by this case, too, so much so that he was finally turning to the bottle.

Yeah, there was no way it was the second one.

You shouldn’t have been surprised that it was him who came to find you. You didn’t exactly hide your misery on the flight back. Any attempts by the others trying to talk to you were shut down immediately. And while you were close with the other women on the team and often went out with them for dinners and drinks, you’d consider yourself closest to the brainiac of the group. You enjoyed his tangent and facts, and unlike the rest of the team, when he had an extra ticket to an obscure foreign film festival in DC or to a guest lecture at Georgetown featuring a renowned scientist, you’d often take him up on his offer. He was likely your closest friend (not that you had many to consider for that position).

Spencer gestured to the seat across from you in your booth, and after a moment of consideration, you nodded for him to sit. “I’m not going to lie to you, Y/N--”

“You wouldn’t be able to even if you tried,” you interrupted.

He laughed, “Yeah, yeah, you’re right. I just, uh, wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

“Fine.” You rolled the bottom of your beer bottle around in a circle on the table.

Spencer shrugged his jacket and bag strap off before leaning back into his seat, staring at you with his head cocked slightly to the side. A waiter came by and asked if he wanted anything to drink. He just ordered a glass of water.

When the waiter walked away, Spencer snorted, saying, “You do realize that just as you would be able to catch me in any lie, I’m capable of the same. Probably even more so than you.”

You couldn’t help the smile that briefly lifted to your face. “Is that so,” you drawled.

“Oh, yeah, definitely. In case you forgot, I do have--”

“An IQ of 187, an eidetic memory, three PhDs, and two BAs.” When he opened his mouth again to interrupt, you continued, “ _ and _ working on a third BA. C’mon, Reid. If you’re going to tease me, at least be original.”

His face scrunched up as he said, “Hey, I’m  _ plenty  _ original.”

“Mhm, I’ll believe it when I see it.”

You looked up from the table and locked eyes with him. Both of you maintained stoic countenances, daring the other to speak up again, until the corner of Spencer’s lip twitched and you tumbled into laughter.

One of the downsides of being surrounded by other profilers every day of your life was that it was difficult to hide anything. You’d come to realize that as much as it was a curse at times, it was also a blessing to know that you had people that would check in on you when you needed them, even when you didn’t want to admit it to yourself. Spencer was always hypervigilant with you. Sometimes it irritated you to no end, but mostly, you were glad to have someone who cared.

God knows you didn’t have anybody else in your life who did.

So you waved the white flag in your mind, and when your laughter died down, your mouth quivered with barely restrained emotion. “Sometimes I really fucking hate our job, Reid.” He didn’t respond. He only pressed his lips together and nodded slightly to tell you to continue. You stopped fiddling with your now empty bottle, placing it to the side as you put your elbows onto the table and ran your hands down your face. “I know it’s stupid, and I shouldn’t…  _ be _ like this. I  _ know _ we’re not going to save all of them. But I just really thought we were going to get to her in time. I  _ told her parents _ that we would get her back. I let them hope. I should’ve managed expectations like we’re supposed to, but I just--” You cut yourself off and pressed your knuckles against your mouth, taking a sharp breath before continuing, “I let them hope, and then I broke them. And I hate myself for it.”

Reid was silent for a few beats. Then, he said, “Hope in reality is the worst of all evils because it prolongs the torments of man.”

You scoffed, “Don’t quote Nietzche at me, Reid. I’ll feel worse.”

“Actually, I was going to comment on the contradictory nature of that quote as it pertains to Nietzche,” he replied, a smile tugging on the corner of his lips.

You raised an eyebrow.

“While, yes, Nietzche is, well, notorious for his nihilism, many philosophers think of that quote in relation to the story of Pandora’s box. See, Pandora was given this beautiful box from the gods, right? A gift from Zeus. She was told to never open it, but the box called out to her with promises of love and goodness, only to fill the world with evil when it was finally opened. Many look at this myth as an analogy for hope, of the lie it ultimately tells us.

“But what people tend to ignore is that hope comes with the automatic assumption of disappointment. Yet we’re hardwired to hope regardless of that fact. Even if you told them that Maria was likely dead already, part of them would have still hoped. You yourself hoped for it. And the box was opened in the end, anyway. You just had the misfortune of being its deliverer.

“Now, Nietzche saying that is really just ironic, considering how he himself developed many schools of thoughts about the New Hope. Nietzsche regularly contradicted himself, actually. He often quoted Ralph Waldo Emerson in saying that ‘consistency is the--’” He stopped mid sentence, open mouthed with a finger in the air, before shutting his mouth and slumping back. He ran a hand through his hair. You just waited for him to come back down to Earth. “Sorry.”

“Never apologize, Reid. I love listening.”

“No, it’s just… the point I was trying to make was that it’s not on you to ‘manage’ their expectations. Hope is natural, and disappointment and pain are inevitable. They go hand in hand. Maria’s parents were grieving, and what they said to you... well, it’s just not your fault. I don’t want you to think that it is.”

“I know, but it’s still just  _ frustrating _ .”

Spencer reached across the table and brushed his hand against yours. “I understand,” he said, and in that moment, you were infinitely thankful that he’d sought you out to make sure you were okay. 

You turned your hand over to squeeze his in yours. “I have to admit; I like ‘hope is the thing with feathers’ far more than anything Nietzsche could write. It’s far less migraine inducing.”

“‘that perches in the soul, and sings the tune without words, and never stops at all.’ Emily Dickinson. I can’t say I entirely disagree with you.” He sent you a soft smile, one that you at last returned.

And you decided that, while you still planned on taking the edge off your frustration by way of inebriation, perhaps you wouldn’t do it alone. You waved down another waiter and ordered two rounds of tequila shots for the two of you.

He jerked his hand back. “Y/N--”

“Come on, genius. Have a drink with me.”

“Using alcohol as a means of coping with negative emotions leads to a higher chance of blacking out, particularly in social settings,  _ and _ women are more susceptible to the medical consequences of excessive alcohol use than men. This is a slippery slope towards alcoholism, Y/N.”

The waiter returned with four shot glasses, salt, and lime slices, and as he poured your shots, you said, “Two shots, Reid, because I’m out at a bar with my friend. Not because I’m a budding alcoholic. Then we’ll go home.”

You slid two of the glasses to him, and he sighed. “I’m almost certain this counts as peer pressure.” But he picked up one of the lime slices anyway. “And, for the record, this is far from my drink of choice.”

“Yeah, yeah, cheers.”

You clinked your glasses together, and despite his protests, there was a smile on Spencer’s lips. It quickly vanished after downing the shot.

He began coughing. “Oh.  _ Oh _ , that was unpleasant.”

You laughed, “What’d you expect? It’s a shitty bar with shitty spirits.”

“Does it taste any better the second time around? I mean, seriously, why did you order two?” He smacked his lips together a few times, brows furrowed and nose scrunched.

Maybe it was the influence of your previous two drinks already swimming in your system (and your less-than-impressive tolerance to go along with it), but you leaned over the table and flicked his nose with your finger. “ _ Baby _ .”

He recoiled, swatting your hand away. “ _ Hey _ !”

“Stop complaining and bite your lime.”

Reid did as he was told, with even less enthusiasm than before, and coughed again. When you pushed him the next shot, he shoved it to the edge of the table, and he said “Look, I have a 1997 Napa Valley Cabernet Sauvignon in my apartment. It was a gift from a victim’s family last October. If you want a drink, you’d be better off having that than… another one of  _ those _ .” He pointed accusingly at your remaining shot.

He raised a tempting offer.

Placing a hand over your heart, you gasped, “Dr.  _ Reid _ , are you inviting me over  _ for a drink _ .”

“Well, more accurately, I would say I’m  _ bribing _ you. What do you say?”

You sat back and studied him. He looked earnest enough, but Reid wasn’t the best at controlling his micro-expressions. The slight tilt in his head, the tiny notch between his brows, that soft look in his eyes that he’d never be able to hide. He wasn’t bribing you away from the tequila (which, honestly,  _ was _ awful); he was trying to distract you from the horrors still festering inside you from the case.

To his credit, you  _ did _ like to drink after a hard case. You knew he could recognize the slight dependence you’d developed on it. It never impaired your work--you were a  _ damn _ fine agent--but you probably relied on it more than you should have.

As a former addict himself, Spencer’s concern stemmed from a place of experience. You knew that. If it were anyone else, you would have found it irritating. But this was Reid, and you could never  _ really _ be cross with him.

So you relented. “Fine. That was a great year for Napa Valley, anyway.”

“I know it was. Now pay the tab, and let’s go. I live only two stops on the metro away.”

You left thirty bucks on the table before trailing Spencer out into the brisk, end of October air. You’d been to his apartment a few times before, only ever briefly to pick him up in your car whenever the weather was too unsavory for public transportation, or if you were ever feeling lazy and ask him if he wanted a ride, too. His apartment was closer to the BAU than yours was, so you never had to go out of your way.

When you arrived--taking in the avocado green walls, walls of bookshelves, and cozy academic feel--you removed your coat and shoes by the door and settled on the plush leather couch. The alcohol in your system left a warm tingle coursing through your veins. That blissful haze that clouded your judgement and dulled the pain swirled around you.

Okay, maybe you  _ were _ a budding alcoholic, but with the shit you saw daily, who wouldn’t be?

You tilted your head back and stared at the ceiling. From the kitchen, you heard running water and the clink of glasses. You laughed to yourself. You weren’t trying to hide your inebriation, but even if you were, you’d never be able to get past Reid or anyone else at the BAU. You wouldn’t be surprised if he had calculated exactly what your BAC was.

Spencer approached the couch and handed you a tall glass of water.

You stared at it. “ _ That’s _ not cabernet.”

He sat down beside you and answered, “Drink some water, and then we’ll talk. Your BAC is roughly around .0589 percent. Mine isn’t too far below.”

Called it.

But, hey, spending time with Reid was better than getting wasted by yourself, and certainly far healthier. 

“You’re such a mom, you know that?” you said.

“Better that than an enabler.”

You rolled your eyes with a smile and took the glass from his hand. He watched as you downed the drink, smiling when you placed it on the coffee table after finishing.

You quipped, “I’m assuming that the wine is off the table completely?”

“That’s a fairly safe assumption, yes. I figured the company would be better than liquor. Am I right?”

“You almost always are, Dr. Reid.” You reached over and lightly shoved his upper arm. He rocked backwards with the motion, chuckling as he went. Then, you sat back, and you stared at him, the smile fading from your face.

A quick glance at the clock on the wall told you it was nearing 1am. You knew Reid likely didn’t have any other plans (not in the way that Morgan or Prentiss might), but guilt began to bloom in your chest nonetheless. You were both adults, and yet, here he was, essentially babysitting you because he was worried about how you coped with emotional turmoil. He could have met up with someone--a non-baggage-ridden-friend, a  _ date _ , or  _ something _ \--or stayed in to read. But he’d chosen to be with you, not because he necessarily wanted to, but because he felt an obligation to see to your safety. And you knew he wouldn’t hold it against you or resent you for it, but that didn’t stop you from putting him in this position.

It left a bad taste in your mouth.

“Hey, Reid,” you started quietly, “thank you for checking up on me, and hanging out with me, and worrying. I’m sorry for taking up your night.”

He held your gaze, eyes soft, and slowly turned his body towards you, picking his feet up from the floor and crossing his legs on the couch. “You don’t have to thank me, Y/N. Or apologize, for that matter. Isn’t this what good friends do? Care about each other?”

You huffed a laugh. “I guess, but still.”

A beat of silence.

“Am I helping at all?” he asked softly.

That was a good way to describe his voice. Soft. Everything about him, actually, was soft, at least from what you and your profiling skills could see. How was it that after all these years he hadn’t been made brittle by your job? 

You nodded and then looked at your hands in your lap. Your hands were wrung together, your left thumb rubbing your right palm. A nervous and comforting tic of yours. You hadn’t noticed you’d been doing it. Perhaps you felt so at ease with Spencer that you didn’t feel like you needed to mask yourself.

Finally, you answered, “I just don’t know how you do it, Reid.”

“Do what?”

“I don’t know. Be you. You’ve been at this job longer than I have, and you’ve never let anything  _ change _ you. How do you do it?”

It was clear that he didn’t expect that response. His brows furrowed, and he looked up in thought. He parted his lips as if to reply, his tongue darting out and resting on his top lip briefly. You glanced down at his mouth and kept your gaze there longer than you cared to admit to yourself.

When he finally spoke, he said, “Well, I don’t really know how to be anything other than myself, but I just… keep looking for the things that make me happy, I guess. Things that remind me that it’s not all bad out there. What makes you happy, Y/N?”

The fact that you couldn’t say anything immediately was telling. You sat there, mouth half open as you wracked your brain for something,  _ anything _ , that wasn’t related to work, but when you looked back on your life in recent years, it was the same cycle between sleep and work and the occasional girls’ night with Prentiss, JJ, and Garcia, or hang out with Reid. Sure, those made you happy, but even when you were there, your mind often lingered in your work. 

Nothing ever really made you forget the horrors you saw or the demons you hunted day in and day out, you more so than the rest of the team knew. Nothing ever reminded you that there was good in the world, too. 

“I don’t really know,” you said at last. “What makes you happy?”

A gentle smile graced his face. You zeroed in on that, even as he began prattling off hobbies, things he’d learned, and other things he did in his free time that took his mind off the brutality in your job. You liked watching Reid when he went off on his tangents. Even when you were in the middle of delivering a profile to a room of local police, you noticed that when he added his facts and knowledge to answer an obtuse question from the room, his eyes lit up and his face lifted, even when you were in the midst of dealing with serial rapists and killers. 

It was the same thing now, only he was talking about George Bernard Shaw instead of an obscure serial case from history.

And then you realized how close you had become while sitting on the couch. You didn’t know when it happened--you certainly didn’t  _ remember _ scooching any closer--but the side of your thigh was now pressed up against his knee.

Maybe it was the lack of inhibition resulting from whatever alcohol still flowed in your system, or maybe it was the close proximity in which you sat and his shockingly intoxicating scent (that of laundry detergent and old books, unsurprisingly), but when he turned his face towards you again, about to embark on another monologue, you closed the distance between you and pressed your lips to his.

He froze completely.

Shit. What the hell were you doing?

You pulled back and found his eyes wide and jaw slack. Oh, god, you’d messed up. Your mouth opened, an apology and excuse already forming on your lips.

And then his hands came up to the sides of your face, cradling your cheeks and jaw, and your lips collided again.

His kisses were tentative at first, curious, sweet. He kissed you like you might shatter between his hands, like you were something precious and whole instead of the broken soul you saw in the reflection every morning.

And though you hadn’t planned for it, you realized that the second his lips touched yours, the roar of bad memories and gruesome crime scenes that always filled the silence in your mind dulled down to a whisper. The darkness of the world faded into an afterthought, barely a blip in the back of your mind. The demons stopped clawing at your throat and settled down to hibernate for the night.

For the first time in years, you felt like you could breathe. No amount of booze in the world could have compared to that feeling.

You had found a new distraction, a new way to forget, and he was highly addictive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi I had this idea and I just thought it would be fun! 
> 
> If you're interested, I have a spotify playlist for this fic! Here is the link: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2x8Xma31zIut1Y8t14JljS?si=Tuf8rZGBSmaBuKYkBzVnUQ 
> 
> (or just look up my username, charlottemag33, and go to the playlist titled "Wild Nights!")
> 
> Happy reading :)


	2. Lips Unused to Thee

Spencer pulled away, his hands remaining on your face. His breathing had picked up, and you felt the shallow sighs fan out against your face. His breath had the faintly sour scent of tequila, still present despite the time that had passed.

You raised a hand and cupped his jaw. You swiped your thumb against his lips, his tongue darting out in its wake.

You’d never seen Spencer like this: eyes half-lidded, lips pink and wet, a blush blooming on his cheeks. The fact that you were the cause of it caused heat to run through your body, pooling in your core. 

Spencer’s eyes squeezed shut, and he took a shaky breath, mumbling an “uh” as he pulled back farther. One hand dropped to his lap; the other fell to your shoulder, where he lightly gripped the spot between your neck and collarbone.

He huffed a laugh. “What, uh… what’s happening?”

“I kissed you. You kissed me back.”

“No, no--I mean, yes, you--just--” Another breathy laugh. “I’m sorry. My, uh--I’m a little distracted.”

You leaned forward, your hands settling on each of his thighs and sliding higher. “Sorry. I’m probably not helping,” you crooned.

His hands flew on top of yours and stopped them in their tracks, and you noticed just how big they were in comparison to yours. “Y/N, wait.”

You paused.

“You--you’re under the influence--I mean, we  _ both _ are, to some degree--and I don’t think you--”

You cut him off. “Reid, I’m an adult. I’m  _ very _ aware of what I’m doing, and  _ very _ in control of myself.” 

It was the truth. Yes, the bubbly feeling of ease that only came around because of a few drinks was present in your chest, but your mind was sharp. You were focused. And, for whatever fucking reason, all your attention was pinned on Dr. Spencer Reid.

It wasn’t like you  _ didn’t _ find him attractive--quite the opposite. You’d always found him handsome, but he was your co-worker and friend. You never thought more of it. It was never a possibility.

But, in that moment, you wanted him. You needed him.

And you could tell that even as the tequila blurred the edges of his world, too, his genius brain was sharp and focused on you as well, that it wanted you, too.

His eyes flickered from yours, down to your lips, and then back up. His pupils were wide, his breathing still shallow, and you were certain that if you looked down at his lap, there would be another indication of his desire. His tongue swiped across his lips again.

Slowly, you rose on your knees and pushed him back against the couch cushion, straddling him. His hands instinctively settled on your hips. Yours, in turn, slid up his chest, over his shoulders, and then locked behind his neck, your fingers twirling the hair at the nape of his neck. His eyes fluttered shut.

“Reid,” you murmured, “what do you want to happen here? Because I can think of a few things that might be fun.”

His eyes remained closed, and a silence settled between you, only interrupted by the sounds of your breathing and the cars filtering in from the street outside. When his eyes opened, they revealed something new, something darker that you’d never seen in him before. Rather than answering you verbally, he raised one hand to cup your face again while the other snaked around your hips to grab your ass. He used the positioning to yank you towards him, crashing your mouth against his.

The kisses, which just a few moments prior were so sweet and careful, had turned more desperate. The hand on your face went to the back of your head, holding you close to him as you met him with the same fervor. Between your legs, you felt the evidence of his arousal pressing against you. You rocked against him.

A depraved groan rose from his throat. The noise sent a jolt straight to your core. You continued grinding against him, adding pressure and friction right where you needed it. A whine escaped you; it wasn’t nearly enough.

You decided that you were both wearing far too many clothes for this.

You pulled away from him, laughing when Spencer chased after your mouth for more. Looking at him through half-lidded eyes, you breathed, “Bedroom?”

A hint of a smile tugged at his lips, and again, as opposed to using his words to respond, he simply picked you up as he stood. His hands found their way to your ass again, grabbing selfishly as he trailed kisses along your neck and sucking at your pulse point. When you gasped, you could feel him grinning against your skin.

He briefly paused before the threshold of the door that would take you into his dark bedroom, pinning you between his body and the wall just to the side of the door. “This is what you want?” he asked, panting into your shoulder.

Your breathing had reached a similar level of depravity. “Yes, Reid. God, yes.”

You felt him smile again as he hummed both his approval and confirmation. He carried you over the threshold, not bothering to turn on the lights, and set you down on the ground before turning and closing the door. Then, as you reached for him again, he spun you around and pinned you against the closed door, his knee wedged between your legs. You ground down on it, moaning as you went and desperate for something  _ more. _

And more he would give.

His hands slid down your torso as his mouth rebegan its assail on yours. His tongue lapped at your bottom lip, his hands fumbling with the buckle and button of your pants. You reached out and palmed him through his own, and his movements faltered as another groan escaped his chest.

You smirked to yourself. Who would have thought, you and Dr. Reid, sharing a room and a bed for the evening. Who would have thought that your ministrations would elicit such a response from him?

He was not without his own tricks, however. As soon as he was able to undo the buttons to your pants and slide them down just below your ass, granting him access, he shoved his middle and ring finger into your mouth with surprising force. He said nothing, but the look in his eyes spoke loud enough:  _ suck _ .

So you did, saliva beading around your lips, your tongue swirling around the two fingers in your mouth. You dared a glance down to his crotch, where his cock was straining against the confinements of his belt and pants. God, you wanted that in you--down on your knees, or pinned against his bed. You didn’t care. You wanted it. You wanted him.

But Spencer had other plans. When he was satisfied with his fingers, he yanked them from your mouth. Their vacancy left a hollow feeling in you, soon replaced by the feeling of his hand snaking down the front of your panties. His fingers brushed against your clit, and you couldn’t stop the whimper of approval that left your mouth. 

Then he took your mouth with his again, shoving his two fingers deep inside you at the same time and drawing a loud moan which he happily swallowed with his kiss. His fingers stretched against your walls, tentatively pushing in and out to tease a reaction from you. When your hips moved of their own accord, desperate for more friction, more movement, you felt him smile against your mouth.

He pulled away long enough to state, “You’re  _ really _ wet.”

You could hardly give a coherent response, far too wrapped up in the feeling of his lips against yours, the pressure of his body pinning you to the door, and his fingers-- _ god _ , were they always that long?--moving in and out of you, rubbing the anterior wall of your core with just enough pressure to make you melt. 

You felt your body begin to sag, and his free arm wrapped around your torso to prop you up.

Fuck, at this rate, you were going to cum onto his hand.

And he, the cheeky bastard, knew it too. The heel of his palm began pressing against your clit as he moved his fingers in and out, gently rubbing in tandem. Your hands flew to his shoulders, and your head lolled back against the wood.

“Fuck, Reid,” you moaned, and he responded by kissing you deeply again.

Just when that familiar building began reaching its breaking point in your abdomen, his fingers retreated. At your whine, you felt him smile again, and you scowled, pushing your hands against his shoulders and shoving him back, back, back, until the backs of his knees hit his bed.

He lost his balance and fell backwards, ending up sitting on the edge of his bed. You both stared at each other for a moment. Panting, and refusing to break eye contact as you kicked your pants all the way off, Spencer brought the fingers that were just moments before completely submerged in you to his mouth. He sucked his fingers clean, eyes fluttering shut as he savored the taste of you on his tongue. His hum of approval broke the silence between you.

You decided that just as he’d had his fun in denying you that final pleasure, you would have yours. So you shoved him back once again, and he let his torso fall against the well-made bed as your hands began undoing his belt and buttons. You tossed his belt to an unknown corner of the room, and as you tugged his pants down, exposing the strip of skin of his abdomen and the trail of hair that led to your destination, you bent down and began leaving kisses. Your tongue lapped against his skin as you sucked and nipped your way downwards. His sharp intake of breath brought a smirk to your face.

You worked his trousers down his thighs, and then yanked his boxers with them, finally freeing him from his confines. Your mouth nearly went dry at what you saw.

Not that you wondered about it regularly, but who would have thought that Spencer Reid was packing?

Without a moment's hesitation, you bent your head down and took the head of his cock into your mouth. His hips bucked against you as his groan echoed through the room, and you reached your hands out to push his hips down against the mattress, whispering a “ _ shhh _ ” as you peered up at him. You locked eyes, and seeing the look on his face--tortured with lust--just fueled your own want and desire for him.

You wrapped one hand around the base of him, the other rising to cradle his balls, before dipping your head and taking as much as him as you could into your mouth. He hit the back of your throat with enough room to spare for your hand. What you couldn’t reach with your mouth and tongue, you made sure to attend to with your hand, rubbing and stroking in tandem with the bobbing of your mouth.

His hands flew to your head, one embedding itself in your hair, twirling a lock into his fist, and the other to your shoulder. You could feel his hands trembling, like he was restraining himself from grabbing your head and taking your mouth for himself. You wouldn’t have objected. The thought made you chuckle, but when he hit the back of your throat again, it sounded more like a choke.

He lifted his head. “Ah--are you okay?” he panted.

You rose, swirling your tongue around the head before releasing him from your mouth. You continued stroking him, a saccharine smile on your face as you answered, “I’m fantastic.”

“Do you-- _ god _ \--do you want to--”

“Do you have condoms anywhere?”

Spencer sat up and pointed in the direction of his nightstand. Despite the fact that he was a grown man, Reid owning a box of condoms was surprising to you nonetheless. You’d just never imagined him in this light.

This was  _ Reid _ ; he read ten philosophy books a day for fun and wrote out Riemann’s Hypothesis when he needed to unwind. The words “sexually active” didn’t exactly lend themselves to be included in that description.

Clearly, there was more to him than you thought.

You finally released him, standing and unbuttoning your blouse while he eased his pants the rest of the way off. You let the silk fabric fall onto his floor, and left in nothing but your undergarments, you turned to rifle through his nightstand drawer. Despite the heat of the moment, you couldn’t help but take this time to snoop through his things. The drawer was uncharacteristically unorganized: a flashlight, a copy of  _ The Brothers Karamazov _ , a bottle of Advil, and sure enough, way in the back, a box of Trojans. 

Only Spencer would keep condoms and one of Fyodor Dostoevesky’s most memorable works in the same place.

You swiped a condom from the box and closed the drawer, turning back to find him having shed the rest of his clothes as well. He still sat on the bed. He was leaning back on his hands, his messy brown hair sticking up in about a hundred different directions.

Spencer was cute on a normal day. Reid with sex hair was hotter than you anticipated.

The dark room was illuminated by street lights filtering in from the windows, giving you just enough light to see the contours of each other. Spencer’s eyes trailed down your figure. Were it any other one night stand, you would have been a little more self conscious of your comfortable but not-really-sexy cotton bikini briefs and work bra. But Spencer wasn’t put off, especially not as he watched your hips sway back and forth as you stalked back over to him.

With the condom pinched between your forefinger and thumb, you placed your hands back on his shoulders, straddling him again on the bed. As you leaned down to meld your mouth to his, your tongue swiping across his bottom lip before nipping it, eliciting another soft groan from him, his hands slid from your hips up your back. He began fiddling with the clasp of your bra.

One of his hands came around your front, cupping one of your breasts--practically  _ dwarfing _ it in his palm--and tracing the outline of your nipple with his thumb. He finally undid the clasp and pulled away from your face, searching your eyes for approval as he moved to slide the straps down your shoulders.

You shrugged them down your arms and then tossed it behind you as you rocked your hips against his length, separated by nothing but a thin piece of fabric. His hands returned to your hips, squeezing as a wave of pleasure inevitably rolled through him.

Then he began trailing kisses down your jaw, your neck, dusting across your collarbones. You arched your back, sighing as his tongue began trailing down to your breasts, first licking down the valley before moving to take one of your nipples in his mouth. He swirled his tongue around it, sucking lightly and barely grazing his teeth against the peak, and a rush of heat flooded you.

“ _ Shit _ ,” you hissed, rocking against him again as your core ached for more attention.

He seemed to realize this, and in one surprisingly fluid motion, flipped you over onto your back, your head settling onto one of his throw pillows. Your legs were still locked around his hips. He ground himself against you, applying pressure  _ just _ where you needed him to. You threw your head back with a curse.

“Reid,” you panted. He lifted himself up on his forearms, hovering over you, his hips still nestled between your legs and pushing against you.

“What?” His voice was equally breathless. Even still, you could see him scanning your face for anything amiss, ready to stop anything if you said the words.

But instead, you said, “Can you just fuck me already?”

He seemed taken aback by your crass word choice, especially as they were directed at him. You wondered if anyone had ever said that to him before, then quickly banished the thought from your head. You didn’t care about Spencer’s previous sexual partners; you just cared about the man lying on top of you now, panting, sweating, and aching for you as you were for him.

He recovered quickly, huffing a laugh. You could still smell the tequila on his breath. You were sure that yours smelled similarly.

His fingers hooked underneath the band of your underwear, and he slowly rocked back on his heels, pulling them down your legs and revealing you completely to him. His eyes dipped down to your dripping core as he deposited your panties off the side of the bed.

Despite your request, he bent down, trailing kisses starting from your knee and up to where you desperately wanted him. 

Then he licked a stripe up your folds, and you barked a curse as your hands flew to his hair. He chuckled, his tongue diving into you before moving up to your clit, where he licked and kissed until your thighs were trembling around his head. And just when you felt yourself on that edge again, he pulled back, smiling at his handiwork.

You were ready to kill him. And also fuck him into oblivion. Whichever came first.

He pointed to your hand, where you still had the condom gripped tightly. You practically chucked it at him from where you were lying down. But he caught it with ease, unwrapped it, and slowly slid it over himself.

Then you stared at each other. You glanced down to his mouth and chin, shining in the muted light of the room with your pleasure. You were certain you’d never forget that image. Had you not already been driven out of your mind with desire, you would have paused to consider how it might affect your working relationship with him, but you couldn’t find it in you to care at all, then.

Spencer grabbed the other throw pillow from next to your head and then sat back on his heels, staring at your hips with his brows furrowed. His tongue peaked out of his mouth as it often did when he was deep in thought.

“Reid, what’s up?”

“No, sorry, nothing. I’m, uh, just trying to calculate which angle of your hips would optimize your pleasure, but it’s--my brain--it’s taking me a little whi--”

You wrapped your legs around his hips and used the momentum to flip the two of you over, putting him on his back.

And then you sank down on him, and he quickly dropped the pillow in favor of gripping the sides of your thighs as a throaty groan erupted from his chest.

You didn’t move, both to adjust to the feeling of him stretching you, but also to give you a moment to lean down to whisper in his ear, “It’s sex, not physics.” And before he could tell you “Actually,  _ everything _ is physics,” you raised your hips up and slammed back down. You could practically see his brain short circuit, the only words passing through his lips being a curse followed by your name.

You took immense pleasure in knowing that you rendered even his genius brain a little useless.

The two of you picked up a rhythm, first with you rocking your hips up and down his length, and him matching you stroke for stroke, pulling his own hips down when you went up, and slamming deep into you when you slid back down on him. The room was a symphony of skin slapping against skin, his breathless groans, and your whines of pleasure. 

You weren’t colleagues anymore; you were two people overtaken by desire for the other, operating purely under the laws of lust.

Then, while one hand stayed on your hip, helping keep you balanced on him, the other found its way to your clit, rubbing in tandem with each stroke of your hips. Your palms were flat against his chest, and as you built towards that glorious end yet again, your fingers curled, and your nails dug into his skin. If it bothered him, he said nothing, focusing purely on his ministrations of getting you off.

Your orgasm took you by surprise, ripping through your body like a blade, and so strong that you could barely let out a noise. Your eyes squeezed shut as your body shuddered, but even as you came, Spencer continued rubbing your clit and fucking you from underneath, drawing out your pleasure until your body felt weak and your mind vacant.

And when his hips came to a stuttering stop, his face scrunching up as he finally spilled himself into the condom and his final groan echoing through the room, you fell forward on him, nestling your face in the crook of his neck. There was nothing but the sound of your shared panting to fill the space.

A bead of sweat rolled down his neck and onto your forehead. You couldn’t have cared less.

When you could finally muster the energy to do so, you slowly rose off of him with a quiet groan and fell on your back to the other side of the bed. You both lied there, catching your breaths, finally realizing what you’d done.

Ultimately, you knew it would be fine; you were both adults, and even more, you were friends. Friends slept with each other all the time, right? That’s all it was: a one-night stand with your friend.

But the thought drew dread up from your gut. Throughout the duration of the activity, your mind had been focused solely on Spencer, never deviating even for a second. Nothing (and you meant truly  _ nothing _ ) so completely consumed you that work didn’t infiltrate your mind even for a moment. Maybe it was because you hadn’t slept with anyone in awhile. Between flying around the country for cases and focusing on your own projects, you didn’t exactly have time to pick up guys or go out on dates. And on the extremely rare occasions that you did, you were often so unsatisfied by their actions that you honestly welcomed the thought of serial killers, because at least thinking about the cases was mentally stimulating in some capacity.

How sad was that?

But with Spencer it was different. When you thought about how he pinned you against his door, finger fucking you to a point where he needed to prop you up himself lest your knees give out from under you, you couldn’t remember the last time you’d been so turned on, both physically and mentally.

This was a dangerous game you were playing, but it was one that you desperately wanted to continue.

You lolled your head in his direction, your breathing finally settling down into a normal rhythm. He must have heard your movement, because he turned to look at you too.

And for what seemed like the hundredth time that night, you just stared at each other in silence.

He closed his eyes, rubbing a hand down his face. “Y/N--”

You reached out and clapped your hand over his mouth. “No pillow talk.”

Muffled by your hand, he said, “I was going to say you can stay the night, if you want.” When you removed your hand, he continued, “But… I think we should talk--”

“Reid, please, not now.” You needed to think before you talked to him, about how you could keep this  _ thing _ between you going. And, while going back home would have been the smarter move, you couldn’t bring yourself to put on all your clothes again and go out in the cold night. “In the morning. Please.”

Spencer sighed, “Okay,” and you finally removed your hand from his face. “Do you… need anything? Before we go to bed?”

Thank god you had your go bag from the trip. You didn’t know how you’d react if he offered you his clothes to sleep in, or anything else of his to borrow.

You shook your head. “No, I have everything I’d need in my go bag. I guess I’ll just… get that…”

The post-coital awkwardness had never been so apparent in your life.

Without another word, you got up and walked across his apartment--still  _ naked _ \--and rifled through your go bag. You could hear Spencer turning on the lights in his room, and the door of the connecting adjacent bathroom closing with a quiet  _ click _ .

You put on a fresh pair of underwear and the oversized black t-shirt you used as your pajamas. You briefly panicked about your lack of pajama pants, and then realized that the man had both seen you naked and was just inside you. He could deal with you not wearing pants while you slept next to him.

But perhaps you shouldn’t assume that you’d be sleeping in the same bed. Fucking and sharing a bed afterwards seemed… intimate?

Fuck, you didn’t know. This is why you didn’t sleep with your friends. The lines between you were blurred.

Luckily, as you were in the midst of your mental turmoil, Spencer came out from his room dressed in flannel pajama pants and an old sweatshirt that had  _ CalTech _ proudly displayed on the front. He pressed his lips together in an awkward smile.

“So… I don’t know, uh--I mean, I can sleep on the couch if you--”

“I’m not going to kick you out of your own bed, in your own home, Reid. I’ll take the couch.” Not sharing a bed seemed like the smart thing to do, here.

You could have sworn he deflated a little at that, but you chalked it up to exhaustion. The ever present bags under his eyes seemed more prominent in the light.

“Sure. If you want to use the bathroom, I’ll set up the couch.”

You nodded at him and strode back into his bedroom, heading for his bathroom. You closed and locked the door before leaning against the rim of the sink. You stared at your reflection.

Mascara had smeared underneath your eyes, your lips were bright red and swollen, and your hair was wild and messy. There were pink splotches on your neck that thankfully looked like they wouldn’t turn into full on hickeys. 

God, how did you get yourself into this?

You splashed water on your face and went about your nightly routine, making sure to use the restroom before heading back to the couch. 

Spencer was just finishing fluffing a pillow when you arrived. You noticed that he had left you a fresh glass of water on the coffee table. He looked up, a shy, dopey smile on his face. How this was the same man who’d fucked you from underneath through your orgasm, you had no idea.

He just gestured to the couch before walking up to you. “I guess I’ll… see you in the morning?”

“Yeah. Thanks. Goodnight, Reid.”

“Goodnight, Y/N.”

And that was it. He walked to his bedroom and shut the door. You waited until the noises on the other side stopped before you turned the living room lights off and settled onto the couch with a sigh. You pinched the bridge of your nose.

The way you saw it, you had two options: continue on working together professionally and  _ never _ speaking about this again after tomorrow’s inevitable discussion, or…

You began to formulate an idea.


	3. Afterwards -- Day!

You woke up with the sun shining through the blinds, straight onto your face. Groaning, you rolled to face the back cushion.

You weren’t so drunk last night that you woke up with a hangover, but the mild disorientation that accompanied any number of drinks was definitely present. The sun, being your worst enemy in that moment, was absolutely not helping.

Your mind still fuzzy with sleep, you were planning on getting a few more hours, closing your eyes and settling back into the sheets.

And then you remembered where you were, and what had happened.

Oh, god.

You sat up a little too quickly, a quiet groan flitting from your lips as you rubbed the heel of your palm against one of your eyes. Water. That would probably help.

And the glass that Spencer had left you was still sitting on the table. You quickly gulped it down before setting it back. Then you glanced at the clock on the wall, leaned back against the cushion, and drew your knees up, resting your forehead against them.

It was past 10am. You rarely slept in this late. What was stranger than that, though, was that you knew _Spencer_ never slept this late. Ever. The ever present dark circles under his eyes told you that he hardly slept at all. 

But honestly, you couldn’t remember the last time you’d slept so soundly, without a nightmare from the past to speak of. 

You wondered if you should just leave now and talk to him later, but the door to his bedroom clicked open right on cue. You looked up from your knees just as he froze in the doorway.

You stared at each other for a few seconds before you said, “Morning.”

His hair was still wild and messy, flat against one side of his head and sticking up on the other, and he’d ditched the sweatshirt in favor of a white cotton t-shirt. You didn’t hear any water turning on in the bathroom, nor much movement on the other side of the door, so you knew he had to have just woken up like you.

Spencer shot you a tight lipped smile, highlighting the dimples in his cheeks. He removed a hand from his pocket and ran it down his face, huffing a laugh. “So I suppose that wasn’t the extremely vivid and… _unexpected_ dream that I thought it was.”

“Are you trying to tell me that I’m the girl of your dreams? I’m flattered, Reid.”

He chuckled, and another silence settled between you as you went back to just staring at each other.

Yeah, this was painful.

He sucked in a breath. “So can I, uhm, can I get you anything?” He sped past you to the kitchen. “I have coffee, if you want, or I can run out and grab something from around the corner.” You could hear him start to rifle through cabinets and drawers in the kitchen. “I haven’t bought groceries in a while; I’ve been--I’ve been busy--”

“Reid.”

The shuffling in the kitchen paused, and he stuck his head back out.

You smiled softly. “Coffee would be great, but I should be heading out soon. I have work I need to get to.” It wasn’t an excuse; you did have files you needed to sort through, leads you needed to follow, but it wasn’t immediately pressing. You just didn’t want to stick around longer than you needed to. 

The question was how you were going to broach the subject of the idea brewing in your mind regarding last night?

Another tight lipped smile. He dipped back into the kitchen, and you heard the _clatter_ of mugs and a coffee pot begin to brew. Spencer came back out and leaned against the doorframe, his hands back in his pockets.

He watched as you dug through your go bag and pulled out a pair of leggings, putting them on before shuffling to his bedroom to pick up the clothes you’d strewn about the room. Never did you think you’d be picking up your underwear from Spencer Reid’s bedroom floor, but there was a first for everything, you guessed.

You thought about whether you should put on a bra, then decided that you didn’t need to change back into “real” clothes. You could hail a cab outside to take you home. 

You gathered your things and headed back out to where Spencer had filled two mugs with coffee and was settling onto the couch with one in his hand. He looked up at you, gesturing to the second mug resting on the coffee table. After shoving your belongings haphazardly into your bag, you sat down on the couch with him.

You picked up your mug and took a sip.

Spencer laughed to himself next to you. “It’s kind of funny to me. We’ve been friends for years, now, and I still don’t know how you take your coffee.”

“Black is fine. Thanks.” You took a long sip, mainly to delay the conversation you knew you needed to have as long as you could. Your eyes flitted from the mug at your lips, to Spencer, to the well organized bookshelves, back to the mug. You drew your legs up onto the couch and crossed them.

Well, might as well rip off the bandaid.

“So last nigh--”

“Y/N--”

You laughed under your breath while he smiled into his own mug, taking a sip of coffee himself. “Sorry, you go first,” you said as you waved your hand in his direction.

It took him a few seconds to gather his thoughts. The smile faded from his face, and he looked down into the liquid. His coffee was black, but you wouldn’t be surprised if there was a criminal amount of sugar in it. “I don’t… usually do this, so I’m--” He raised his hand and began rubbing his eyes with his forefinger and thumb, scrunching his face up. “--I’m not really sure what I’m supposed to say. I placed my own blood-alcohol-content, based on standard factors like the estimated alcohol percentage in the liquor, my weight, stomach contents, and average time for inebriation, at around .043 percent. Now, at that point, _my_ inhibitions were slightly lowered, but I didn’t--I don’t--” He let out a heavy sigh, running both his hands down his face now. “I don’t want you to think I brought you here with an agenda last night.”

Oh, sweet Spencer.

You chuckled, “I never thought that, Reid. Don’t worry.”

He blew out a breath, laughing to himself at the end, “Okay, good. I’m glad.”

“But I did have a great time with you. And I’m not going to lie--” You leaned back against the arm of the couch “--I really didn’t expect that from you.”

“Yeah, because I’m just such a nerd, right?” He said it with enough spirit that it could’ve passed for a sarcastic quip, but you recognized the bite in his tone well enough.

And his comment made your heart sink, because there was _some_ truth in it. Your surprise, however, came more from the fact that he’d had _casual_ sex with you--meaningless, “we-got-a-little-drunk” sex. He didn’t strike you as the type to engage in such activities with someone he _wasn’t_ in a relationship with. And you knew that he wasn’t exactly looking at you as girlfriend material, so there was no concern for you on that front.

Though what surprised you most of all was the dynamic between you the previous night. While you weren’t intentionally playing with power dynamics, you could tell he was leashing something in himself. It was in the way his mind clouded over with something other than the scrolling code under which you were convinced his brain operated. It was in the way that his eyes darkened when he looked at you. It was in the way he teased you, edged you, and in the way he had you pinned against his door with his fingers pumping mercilessly inside you, rendering you nothing more than a panting mess. The Spencer from the previous night didn’t coincide with the loveable brainiac sitting across the couch from you.

And you would be lying if you said that you didn’t want to see what happened if he unleashed himself fully. That it was something you didn’t want to explore, to test out.

“No,” you responded finally, “I just didn’t really expect you wanting to do that _with me_ .” When he opened his mouth, seemingly to object or defend himself, you quickly added, “and it’s just _sex_. Don’t worry; I got that. I’m really not looking for… a relationship, or anything, so don’t think I’m holding you to anything.”

He took another sip of his coffee before saying, “I’m not either.”

“Okay, great, we’re on the same page, then.” You were both on the same page, and one step closer to having to proposition him with your idea.

Before you could bring it up, he added, “And I had a good time with you, too. Obviously. But like I said, I don’t usually do this kind of thing. Especially not with my friends. Or co-workers. This is a first for me in that department.”

“Can’t relate. I sleep with all my co-workers.” He choked on his next sip of coffee, and you laughed. “That was a _joke_! I don’t make a habit of sleeping with people I have to see on a regular basis.”

“I take it you’re not one for relationships?”

You shook your head. “It’s too much of a commitment, and I don’t really have the time for it.” It was only half the truth. “I haven’t had a serious relationship since… God, my early twenties, maybe.”

“Really?” He sounded so surprised that you couldn’t help but take it as a compliment. “Sorry, it’s just… you’re _you_. You kind of seem like you’d have people lining up.”

Heat rose to your cheeks, and you hid your embarrassment by taking another sip. You were almost out of coffee. When you finished, you’d have to leave, so you needed to wrap up the conversation and get to the point fast. “What about you, pretty boy?” you asked, using Morgan’s affectionate nickname for him.

Spencer pressed his lips together tightly and turned his gaze down to his lap. “No,” he said after a few seconds of thought. “After Maeve and everything I just…” He trailed off.

Shit, you shouldn’t have brought it up. You had joined the BAU soon after that had happened, and while you had heard all about the situation from Garcia, you often forgot that it was still a tender subject for him.

But he cleared his throat and continued, “I’d rather just focus on work than my personal life, anyway.”

“That makes two of us,” you answered. You drained your mug and put it on the coffee table. Well, now or never. “So I--”

You were cut off by the buzzing of your cell phone vibrating where you’d left it on the coffee table the previous night. You cursed under your breath and swiped it off the glass.

After taking a glance at the caller and making sure it wasn’t Garcia calling you all in, you canceled the call and fired a text telling him that you’d call him back in a bit. Hopefully he’d take that.

“Sorry, work,” you mumbled to Spencer, placing the phone face down on the table again.

His brows furrowed. “We have another case?”

“ _No_ , sorry. Different work.”

“Oh,” he answered, uncrossing his own legs and standing from the couch. “Well, if you have to go, the--”

You stood abruptly and cut him off, “Reid, wait.”

He stilled.

“I was just thinking… well, last night before falling asleep, I had an idea, and I wanted to know what you thought about it.”

Spencer cocked his head to the side slightly, a notch between his eyebrows appearing as he stared down at you with curiosity. He nodded for you to continue.

You huffed. “I--well--we both had fun last night, right?” You looked at him for confirmation, and he nodded again. “And neither of us are looking for anything serious, so I was kind of thinking…” You trailed off, letting the implications speak for you.

“I’m… sorry. I don’t follow.”

Of course. 

Sighing, you continued, “Look, the job is hard. Emotionally. Physically. All of us feel isolated more often than not, so I’m just trying to say that if you wanted to do this again, I would be down.”

Spencer’s mouth opened, then closed, then opened again as he struggled to find the words to respond. Then he shut his eyes, a breathy laugh escaping his mouth as he shook his head lightly. “Are you suggesting we sleep together again?”

“I’m saying that it might be worthwhile. I’m saying that I think we could both benefit from it.”

“Benefit how?”

You shrugged. “When’s the last time you slept that long after a case?”

He looked like he might agree for a second and then decided against it, instead replying, “I don’t like waking up this late, anyway. I wasted a perfectly good morning.”

You could tell he only half-meant it. His face had more color in it than you’d seen in a long time, and the circles under his eyes weren’t nearly as prominent as they were the other day. You were sure that if you looked at yourself in the mirror, you’d see something similar.

Your phone started ringing again, and you stifled a sigh. You picked it up, once again denying the call, and walked around the couch to where you’d left your go bag. “I really have to go, but think about it, Reid.”

As you turned away, he reached out and gently gripped your shoulder, keeping you from taking a step and slowly rotating you back to face him. “I don’t just… have _casual sex_ with people, least of all people with whom I’m supposed to have a professional working relationship. I’m just not that kind of man.”

You only shrugged again, this time shaking his hand off you. “Just think it over.”

He didn’t say anything else as you slid your shoes on and bundled yourself into your coat. 

“I’ll see you at work,” was the last thing you said before walking out of his apartment, heading down to the street, and hailing a cab to take you home.

You fired a text back to the man who’d kept calling you, telling him that you’d get to him in a bit. And it was only when you were in the safety of your apartment that you dialed the number back.

You walked down the hallway that led to your bedroom, stopping at the locked door beside your bedroom door. God, you’d kill for a shower, but if Preston was bothering you this much in the morning, then you were already behind schedule.

“ _Took you long enough_ ,” he said when he answered. His southern accent always seemed heavier on the phone.

You rolled your eyes and unlocked the office door. “Pres, you’d better have something good for me.”

“ _Well, I’ve got_ something _, but I’d hardly call it ‘good,’ sweetheart_.”

With a heavy sigh, you sat down at your desk and looked up at the three monitors of your computer, typing in your password to reveal a scrolling screen of code on the left monitor, a list of files on the right monitor, and a _welcome_ screen on the center monitor.

“Alright. Send it over. I’m ready.”


	4. Night's Possibility!

You would have killed to go back to bed. Or for a nap. Or even for two seconds to lie back down and close your eyes.

But instead, you were filling up your mug at the office coffee machine at 3am. The call for the case had come in at 2:23am; you’d barely had time to get dressed, gather your things, and drive to the office on time. You were barefaced as the day you were born, your hair was still mused from sleep, and you were dressed in a long sleeved shirt and leggings (hardly your usual business professional attire).

You closed your eyes as you leaned against the counter. In other corners of the room, you could hear quiet conversation filtering over. Garcia was energetic as ever, somehow unfazed by the middle of the night case briefing, and was bantering with Morgan at his desk. Rossi and Hotch were speaking in hushed whispers by Hotch’s office door. You couldn’t have cared less about what they were talking about. And from Spencer’s desk, you could hear the quiet clatter of him gathering his things and shuffling through papers.

Your mind wandered to the night you’d shared two days prior. He hadn’t reached out to you in the interim, and you hadn’t made any attempts to contact him, either. It was a bit strange, you had to admit; you two spoke often, usually about poetry and novels that you’d recently read if nothing else. The radio silence was unsettling. When you’d run into each other in the elevator, you asked him how the rest of his weekend had been, and all he’d said was, “fine,” with a tight-lipped smile. There was no banter; there wasn’t even any _small talk_. Only “how was your weekend?” and “fine.”

Maybe you shouldn’t have told him what you were thinking. You always spoke your mind, and you _hated_ lying. Given everything else you had to hide on a regular basis, you tried to be upfront in every other aspect of your life. But you thought about his breath in your ear, the feel of his hands--calloused yet still eerily soft--brushing against your skin, the pressure of his body pinning you to the door… 

“Rough weekend?”

Prentiss’ voice sliced through your thoughts, and you jolted back up. The blush creeping up your neck threatened to expose your thoughts.

You needed to get control over yourself. You were surrounded by _profilers_ , for god’s sake. If you were thinking about anything unsavory, they, if anyone, would be able to tell.

You deflated back against the counter, breathing a laugh as you answered, “Not really. Just a tiring one. And being called in the middle of the night isn’t helping.” Out of the corner of your eye, you could see Spencer glance over. You forced yourself not to acknowledge it. 

The coffee behind you finished brewing, and you picked up your mug.

Prentiss chuckled, “Yeah, but hey, Garcia and I were talking earlier. I think we’re overdue for a night out together. She found a bar doing a _salsa night_ , heavy on the margaritas, in about a month. What do you think?”

Before you could respond, Hotch strode past, waving his hand for you both to follow. You smiled at Prentiss. “Salsa night, heavy on the margaritas, sounds great. I’ll put it in my calendar,” you said as you followed close behind him.

Another day, another job, another family in need. You just hoped it wouldn’t leave you as wounded as the last one.

***

The plane ride back had been quiet, and you swore that these cases were getting darker and darker. It wasn’t you who had carried the emotional brunt of this case, however--though, you certainly found yourself more personally invested than you should have been, as well. Rather, it was Spencer who’d remained completely silent on the journey home.

He always took these kinds of cases harder than the rest of you. Connolly Williams, a fifteen-year-old boy from Cleveland, had been kidnapping and murdering the younger siblings of his school tormentors. His own younger sister had been killed in a house fire when he was young, and it was a sore spot his bullies loved to exploit. You’d dealt with your fair share of bullies and mean girls in high school, as well, so you could relate to the feeling of helplessness. 

“I couldn’t _protect_ her. I wanted to show those bastards that they couldn’t have protected her, either,” Connolly had said at his final stand off, “that they’d _never_ be able to protect her!”

At that point, he was headed towards the home of his largest tormentor--a typical jock type with a rap sheet for public indecency and buying liquor with a fake ID--with a homemade sawed-off and his father’s revolver strapped to his belt. He wasn’t planning on coming back out of the house. You’d found a file on his computer detailing his plans; he was going to take the entire family out with him.

Spencer had tried talking him down, positive he could get Connolly to come quietly. But the empathetic “I know how it feels” speech he typically gave to these kinds of unsubs backfired on him, and when Connolly’s face twisted with rage and anguish and he raised the sawed-off to take the shot at Reid, Hotch had to open fire.

Connolly was dead before he even hit the ground.

It was only around 7pm when you touched back down in Quantico, and you had headed back up to your desk to file away the report you’d written in your cabinet. You’d submit it to Hotch tomorrow. For now, you just wanted to curl up on your couch with a bottle of shitty sparkling rosé and take out. As you walked back into the lobby, scrolling through restaurant options on your phone, you looked up to find Spencer waiting by the door.

He looked hollow, under eye circles back in full force, and though he always had bad posture, he was hunched over more than usual as he leaned against the wall.

When he heard the click of your shoes against the marble floor, his eyes flitted to you. He gave you a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Hey,” you greeted as you approached.

“Hi. Did you want to grab dinner? There’s something I want to talk about with you.”

You blinked. The way he was looking at you… well, you knew the look in his eyes as well as you knew your own face. It was the look of someone tormented by his own thoughts, of someone who wanted something to keep the demons at bay.

And you had an idea of what he wanted to talk to you about, too.

“Sure. I was planning on ordering in, but I know of a pretty good Korean restaurant nearby. They have great kimchi _jjigae_.”

His face lifted a bit, and you couldn’t help but smile at knowing you were the cause. He opened the door for you as you walked by. You waved for him to follow, saying, “I have my car. I’ll drive.”

The ten minute drive was silent aside from the quiet hum of Taylor Swift drifting through the speakers. If he had an opinion on your music choice, he didn’t say anything. You knew he mostly listened to instrumental music from the baroque, classical, and romantic eras. Maybe when you dropped him off at his apartment, you would change the playlist. You’d grown up playing the piano; you knew your way around your composers well enough.

He finally spoke when you’d gotten to the restaurant--a small family run place--and placed an order for two bowls of kimchi _jjigae_ : “You know there’s actually no recorded recipes of kimchi _jjigae_ before the late 20th century? Many speculate that Korean housewives began putting it into stews when napa cabbage prices went down, allowing more families to make kimchi at home.”

“Mmm, that’s _true_ , but many also believe that kimchi _jjigae_ came around when chili peppers were introduced to the Korean peninsula. But it’s all just speculation and family stories passed down and shared.” At his raised brows, you continued with a laugh, “C’mon, Reid. Give me some credit. I know my stuff on exactly two things: food and western literature.”

“But nothing on profiling or psychology?”

“Oh, definitely not. I’ve never even heard of those things.”

He laughed, leaning back into his seat. He looked a little more relaxed now, and some light had returned to his face. Then he furrowed his brows a bit, a small smile still on his face. “Why western literature?”

You shrugged. “I was a bookworm growing up, and I studied it in college. Western literature with a concentration on American literature.”

His smile widened at that. “Really? I didn’t know. Who’s your favorite writer?” He looked so excited that you had to answer.

“Emily Dickinson.” The answer came instinctually, as it always had. She had been your favorite since childhood. You could recite all of your favorite poems from memory, and there were quite a few of them. And, then, just because you knew he’d have an opinion on it, you added, “ _And_ Faulkner.”

His jaw dropped. “Oh, come on! _No one’s_ favorite author is Faulkner!” he cried. “That’s like saying your favorite philosopher is Descartes, or… or that Thornton Wilder is your favorite playwright; they’re obviously brilliant, but they’re no one’s _favorite_.”

“You _obviously_ haven’t read _Absalom! Absalom!_ ”

“Actually, I’ve read it _several_ times. Don’t get me wrong; it’s arguably one of his best works, and he’s a brilliant writer. But again to say he’s your _favorite_ when there are so many other western authors that have had more far reaching influence on western society is… is just…”

You tried to keep your face neutral, but your lip began quivering at his indignation. It wasn’t long before you started snorting, bringing a hand over your mouth as if you could hide it. 

Spencer rolled his eyes. “Oh, I see. You’re hilarious.”

“I’m well aware, but thanks for the reminder.”

He shook his head and raised his hands to the table, fiddling with his napkin. “I can’t believe this is the first time I’m hearing about this. Where did you go to school?”

As he asked, the waiter came back around with your stew, and you were grateful to have a reason not to answer. Instead, you thanked the waiter and shoved a spoonful into your mouth, ignoring how it burned your tongue. “What did you want to talk about?” you asked around your mouthful.

It was his turn to use the food as an evasion strategy. He scooped a cube of tofu onto his spoon and took a bite, keeping his gaze down towards his bowl. “Oh, you were right. This is delightful. I’ll definitely have to come back here.” He looked around the restaurant in search of something. “Hey, do you think I could get a takeout menu?”

“Reid, come on. What’s up?”

He sighed. He propped his spoon against his bowl and, with a pink blush peeking over the collar of his shirt, said, “I’ve been thinking about what you said the other day. About… you know.”

“What about it?”

Spencer shrugged. “When I was with you, it was like all of the terrible things that we see everyday faded into the background for a little while. It was strange, but in a good way. I don’t know. I don’t even know how to approach this, really.”

You reached across the table and put your hand over his. “I felt the same way,” you said. “Are you trying to say you want to do it again?”

He nodded. “I think you were right when you said it would benefit both of us. This case just…” He trailed off, taking his hand from yours and running it down his face. “I can’t stop replaying what I said to Connolly. Maybe if I’d tried a different angle, or used a different intonation in my voice--because, you know, that _can_ make a difference in how your message is perceived--then… Hotch wouldn’t have had to shoot.”

“Reid,” you murmured, “you can’t think like that. It’s not your fault.” But you knew that regardless of what you said, it wouldn’t change the burden in his heart. Like the last case for you, this one would haunt him for some time. The only remedy was finding a way to keep the ghosts away until they faded with time.

He looked back up at you, torment gleaming in his eye again. You’d do anything to make it go away.

“Okay, well you know where I stand, so let’s write up some rules.” You took your phone out from your pocket.

He raised an eyebrow. “Rules?”

“To keep things from getting messy. If we’re going to be friends-with-benefits, we should talk about our expectations.”

“Friends-with-benefits?”

You placed your phone face up on the table open to a new note. “We’re now friends who have sex with each other. Hence, we’re friends-with-benefits.”

He shook his head, but said nothing in response.

You took another bite of your meal. “I’ll start,” you said, picking your phone back up to type. “If you have sex with anyone else, you need to tell the other person. No judgement--just for both of our sexual healths. Now your turn.”

You went back and forth like that, swapping your phone to add different “rules” to your list. Some of them were jokes, such as “no quoting Faulkner, pre or post coitus,” but by the end, the legitimate rules proved to create a fairly comprehensive list:

  1. If you have sex with anyone else, you need to tell the other person (and communicate in general about the arrangement. “Communication is going to be a necessity if we’re going to do this,” Reid had said.)
  2. Don’t tell anyone else in the BAU (He was _very_ adamant about that one)
  3. No sleeping in the same bed afterwards (You had insisted on this one; you wanted nothing that made it feel like you were in a relationship)
  4. No cuddling for prolonged periods of time (Reid had added this as an addendum to rule three; “Cuddling releases oxytocin, often referred to as the ‘love hormone’ because it enhances feelings of intimacy between people. If we’re keeping this purely physical, then we should keep that in mind,” he’d said)
  5. No feelings allowed.



You’d added the last one. While it was the unspoken rule of the whole situation, keeping that reminder there couldn’t hurt.

When you finished the list, after laughing throughout the entire process, you’d also both finished your dinner. It was nearing 9pm, and after splitting the check and tipping handsomely for the excellent meal, the two of you headed back to your car.

It was when you were settled in, music playing softly through the stereo again, that you asked, “So is the couch still made up for me?”

He turned his head towards you. “What?”

“You know, in case our friends-with-benefitting takes us long into the night.” When he didn’t respond, you snorted, “Reid, come on, there was a reason you asked me about this _tonight_. You know you of all people can’t exactly try and play dumb.”

“I don’t want to pressure you into--”

You cut him off by reaching your right hand over the central console and resting it on his thigh. The muscle beneath your hand jumped, as if shocked by the physical contact. “You’re not. Trust me.”

He seemed to take that well enough, but there was an undeniable tension in the air of the car afterwards. Spencer was tense; you could tell long after your hand had returned to its place on the steering wheel. He wasn’t telling you something, and based on how his eyes kept flitting to you every few minutes, you could tell that it had to do something with his concern for you. 

If he was worried about the possibility of developing feelings, he wasn’t the excellent profiler he thought he was. Absolutely _everything_ about you screamed “emotionally unavailable,” after all. You made no efforts to hide it; better to wear it on your sleeve than to hurt people in the process.

When you arrived at his building, you left your go bag in the car. Something about his demeanor told you that you wouldn’t end this night moaning out his name. Disappointment settled in your chest, but you tried to push it away. This was simply the beginning, and both of you had some ways to go before you were both entirely comfortable with the other in this context.

During your rule planning, Spencer had let it slip that the last time he’d had a sexual partner was when he was addicted to dilaudid. “I made more than a few poor choices during that time,” he’d said to you. He didn’t say anything more. You didn’t press the issue; his struggle with addiction was still a sore subject, and you didn’t blame him. You never did; you just let him speak about it when he needed to, making sure he always knew that you were there to listen and support, never to judge or shame. Given how long ago that was, it made sense that he was apprehensive. You’d just have to show him all of the reasons why he didn’t have to be.

But honestly, you weren’t that much more active yourself. As you got older, the number of one-night-stands you had dwindled to a handful in a year, and that was a generous estimate. Between the job and the increasing number of men your age looking for long term relationships, you began to prefer solo drinking and sleep to mediocre sex with a guy you’d picked up at the bar. 

You followed him into his apartment, and instead of taking off your coat and shoes, you leaned against the door after closing it. You watched as he stripped his outer layers with controlled frenzy, practically tossing his messenger bag onto an armchair in the corner. Then Spencer turned to face you, and you tilted your head to examine him.

“What?” 

“What’s going on with you?” you finally asked. You toed off your shoes, not taking your eyes off of him, and slowly peeled your coat off. He watched your every move carefully. “First, you practically admit to thinking obsessively about how we fucked last time we were here,” you said, tossing your coat onto the back of a chair as you stalked towards him, a predator circling her prey. He flinched at your choice of words, but didn’t back down. You continued, “And now, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re ashamed of something. So what is it?” You were standing directly before him, your chin tilted up so you could continue looking deep into his eyes.

“Not ashamed,” he breathed. “It’s not that.”

You reached your hands up, gently placing them on his shoulders. He was tense, like he might jump out of his own skin any second. You slowly slid them down his arms, and a slight tremor wracked his body. “Then what?” you whispered.

He closed his eyes for a moment, but when you reached back up and started loosening his tie, his own hands flew up and held yours against his chest. His eyes opened, and you smiled at what you saw.

There was that look again--the look of something darker lurking under the surface of his gentle persona.

Finally, he ground out, “I don’t want you to think I’m using you. I’m not. I would never do that.”

You would never “use” him, either, but in a way, you couldn’t help but think that even despite both of your best intentions, you _were_ using each other as a way to escape your realities. It probably wasn’t the healthiest coping mechanism, but it was better than drugs and drinks, which were poisons both of you respectively had indulged in. At least here you were with someone you trusted--someone you respected and who respected you.

So you looked up at him from beneath your lashes, sliding your hands down his chest, to his waist, and then to his hips. You dared a quick glance down and saw that telling bulge beginning to grow in his crotch. Biting your bottom lip, you looked back up at him and softly said, “What if I want you to use me?”

That snapped something in him, something he was keeping on a tight reign. He didn’t respond. Instead, his hands went to the sides of your face--god, you loved the way he pulled your face to his when he kissed you--and crashed his lips into yours. Your back arched into him, one of your hands settling onto his hip while the other grabbed a fistful of his hair. It was starting to grow out a bit again, and you liked the fact that it gave you something to tug.

Then he spun you both around and began backing you up until you bumped into the back of his couch. The hand you had on his hip reached around front to palm him through his pants, but one of his hands shot down and grabbed your wrist.

You pulled away from the kiss in surprise, opening your eyes to find him glaring at you. “ _Not yet_ ,” he hissed. He was gripping your wrist tightly, possessively, and he lifted it to his mouth, pressing a kiss to the inside before dragging his tongue across your veins. He then looked back over to you, chuckling as he took in your shocked expression before he dropped your hand in favor of settling his hands on your hips.

He spun you around again harshly, so much so that you stumbled and had to lean forward on the back of the couch to stay balanced. Evidently this was part of his plan. He used your stumble to yank your back against him. You felt his hardness pressing against your ass, and it took all your willpower to not push back against it. 

The utter command in his voice when he told you “not yet” sent a flash of heat through your body. You were still testing the waters of where he stood in all this; you wouldn’t be quite so disobedient yet.

One hand came over your shoulder to dive down the front of your oversized sweater, roughly groping your breast in his palm, while the other teased the band of your legging, his long fingers dipping down just enough to brush underneath the hem of your panties.

You gasped, both from surprise and from pleasure, as his head dipped and bit down on the junction between your neck and shoulder. You arched against him, and involuntarily, your ass ended up grinding hard against him.

A quiet groan escaped his mouth. Despite his initial direction, he couldn’t seem to help himself, either, because he pressed himself against you, never stopping his teasing your waistband or fondling of your breast.

Your core was already throbbing, begging for attention despite barely having started your activities. Was it possible for you to be this turned on by so little?

He yanked your torso hard against his, forcing you back upright, just as his hand slid farther down and finally touched you where you wanted him, but just barely. His index finger brushed against your clit, and you whined, jutting your hips forward in a silent plea.

He clicked his tongue. “So impatient,” he murmured into your ear. You thought he might drag this out again, teasing you and denying you what you desperately wanted, but with a light nip to the shell of your ear, he began rubbing tight circles with just enough pressure to make you melt.

Your head fell back against his chest as your breathing picked up. You’d come here thinking you would be the one in control, lying him back on his bed, taking him in your mouth, making yourself the object of all of his attention by way of getting him off. But, clearly, that wasn’t the way to be his _distraction_ . _He_ needed to be the one in control. He got off on having that power.

You smiled to yourself. You knew he was holding something back the last time you did this. Spencer Reid liked to dom. 

Who would have thought?

You twisted around in his arms and grabbed his face to pull him back down and kiss him, grinding against his length with more force. For a moment, he didn’t object as he greedily devoured your mouth. But then he pulled back completely, removing his hands from your body and taking a step back.

Breathing heavily, both of you stared at each other. Then he scoffed and said, “I told you to stop that. Turn back around.”

The authority in his tone took you by surprise. His voice was low, gruff--nothing like his usual manner of speech. You’d never heard him speak like that before. The fact that you got to see a side of him that no one else did thrilled you.

As he started undoing his tie, you did as told. “What are you going to do to me?” you taunted.

He responded by yanking your hands behind your back and wrapping his tie around your wrists. You could hear the jingle of his belt being undone. You bit your lip to conceal your smile. There was the crinkle of foil (he was prepared, you thought with a laugh to yourself), and then he slid your leggings down to your knees.

Spencer pushed your torso forward, bending you at the waist and pressing your face into the couch’s back cushions. He leaned down against you, chuckling as he whispered in your ear, “Give you what you’re asking for. This time,” before sliding into you.

You immediately arched against him, only for him to shove your face back down into the cushion. A broken moan escaped your throat as he began plunging in and out of you at a relentless pace. He was giving you what you had asked for, sure, but he was also taking what was his at the same time. You liked the idea of having something he wanted to take. You’d give him anything as long as he kept fucking you like that.

His body curled against yours, and you could feel his breath against the shell of your ear. Then he began kissing his way down the side of your neck, never once breaking his rhythm. The sound of skin against skin mixed with your whines of pleasure pervaded through the air, and when he began sucking on the spot behind your ear, somehow knowing exactly which parts of you to tease to make your toes curl, another moan broke through the air.

“You’re so loud,” Spencer breathed against your skin. He was one to talk; his own breathy groans were beginning to grow as he got closer.

You responded by moaning even louder, just because you could.

One of his hands came around to your front to relish your clit with attention once again, rubbing with the same light pressure and tight circles.

“ _Fuck_ , _Reid_!” you panted. Your hands were straining against his tie. You wanted to touch him, to feel more of him on you, even as your knees were threatening to buckle underneath you. You were grateful for the back of the couch; were it not for the structure, you would have sagged to the floor at this point.

He must have noticed. Without breaking his rhythm, he peeled his torso away from yours, his free hand grabbing your wrists and making sure that they didn’t come untied. The sheer command in his touch, the way he pounded into you without respite, and the expert attention he paid to your clit all brought you careening off of that edge at last. Your body curled into the cushions as you came, your vision going bright and your head going blank all at once. You could have been breathing his name like a prayer, or you could have been mumbling incoherencies. It didn’t matter; there was nothing but him and you and that leather couch at that moment.

At your release, and as your walls began clenching around him, Spencer found his own, his hips stuttering against you, finally breaking up the impressive rhythm he’d maintained. One last guttural groan was wrenched from his throat as he came. His hands left your body, instead opting to brace himself on either side of you on the couch.

He was buried deep inside you for a few long minutes afterwards. You couldn’t have cared less.

When he slid out, a small wince left your throat. You stayed leaning over the couch, surprisingly spent despite how short the affair had been.

And then it was like Spencer had flipped a switch on himself. His hands came back to you, gentle and sweet as he slowly untied his tie from your wrists. It was only when you were unbound that you finally stood back up.

You examined your wrists. There were no marks (not that you expected there to be any; he hadn’t tied your wrists very tightly). You turned to look up at him to find a notch between his brows and a slight frown on his face.

“Are you okay?” he asked softly.

You couldn’t help but laugh. He’d just mercilessly fucked you into oblivion. You’d say you were pretty great.

You said as much.

Some of the distress on his face eased, but not all of it. It was like he felt guilty, like he thought that he’d “used” you as a means to his own end. In some sense, he did. You were here for him this time, ready and willing to have been used as a distraction. That was kind of the whole point of your arrangement together.

You reached up and tenderly cupped the side of his face, and he leaned into your touch. Something tugged at your heart at the sight. He seemed so vulnerable, and you knew it’d take a few times before he was truly comfortable taking you in the ways that both of you clearly wanted him to.

“Reid, I liked that a lot. I like _yielding_ to you like this, and if it’s something you want too, I’d like to continue doing more things like that. But I appreciate you checking in,” you said. 

That reassurance seemed to be enough, because he nodded and bent down again to leave one last, searing kiss. You happily obliged. 

“Well, if you couldn’t tell,” he said as the two of you began fixing your clothes, “the couch isn’t made up for you. But I can easily do that if you want to stay the night.”

You considered it for a moment. Again, you had your go bag with you. It wouldn’t be an inconvenience for either of you, but though it wasn’t against any of the rules you two had planned out, spending the night at his apartment still seemed too intimate. You wanted to keep the lines between you two as clear as possible, so if you weren’t too tired or inebriated or drained, you would do the smart thing and head back home.

So you shook your head. “No need. I should get home, anyway.”

Reid hid it well, but you still saw him deflate. You figured he liked the company, regardless of the activity, and you’d be lying if you said you didn’t enjoy spending time with him. And while hanging out with him was always tempting, you knew you should head out.

He gave you a tight lipped smile as he took a step back. “Okay, well if this is what we’re planning to do, I’ll research more into dominance and submission so we can incorporate those aspects. Of course, I know much in theory and in definitions, but not so much in legitimate practice. My current knowledge on the subject in practice is largely from works of fiction that have themes of sadomasochism, like in Leopold von Sacher-Masoch’s _Venus in Furs_. Austrian psychiatrist Richard Von Krafft-Ebing actually coined the term ‘masochism’ by deriving it from Sacher-Masoch’s name, interestingly enough.”

“ _Venus in Furs_ was written in the late _19th_ century, so your knowledge might be a _little_ outdated,” you answered with a wink, walking past him to pick up your coat and put on your shoes. “But, please, do let me know what you find out.” The image of Spencer sitting in a library speed reading _Fifty Shades of Grey_ (which you _knew_ he would read for lack of knowledge of what it was and would abhor it for both its terrible plot and prose) with his face scrunched in disgust threatened to send you into a laughing fit, but you covered it up with a cough.

He raised an eyebrow at you. You shook your head with a smile.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Reid. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Y/N.”

And for the second time, you walked out of Spencer’s apartment, a soft smile on your face and a light feeling in your chest. Maybe it was due to the fact that you were actually getting some after a long dry spell, or maybe it was the fact that Spencer actively planning on doing “research” into BDSM was undeniably endearing, but you breathed a little easier, like hope--the fickle, double edged sword it was--for something good in your life was blooming for the first time in a long time.

You kept that feeling as you drove home, even as you took in the sterile environment of your apartment. You didn’t display any photographs or have any real personal touches that said much about you in the main room or your bedroom. Any truly personal items--diplomas, family photos, and the like--were all in boxes in the corners of your office.

You walked down the hallway and placed a hand on the locked door. It still wasn’t too late; you could get a little more sleuthing done, but you weren’t ready to let go of that lightness yet. You’d had enough death for one day. You didn’t need to look at any more for the night.

So after you took a shower and went through your nightly routine, you plopped onto your bed in your pajamas. Your phone buzzed on the nightstand with a text.

_Preston: u make it home ok?_

_You: We landed a few hours ago. been at home and going to bed._

_Preston: Sounds good. Get some sleep. The director’s been asking for results. We need a breakthrough soon. Maryanne might have a lead but isn’t sure yet. I’ll let u know when i do._

Your gut twisted, and you bit the inside of your lip. The feeling from earlier vanished, and you were left cold and vacant as you remembered your only purpose here. You didn’t want to think about that now. There was still time to figure it out. 

_You: have a good night pres_

_Preston: goodnight. love u sweetheart_

With a scoff, you rolled your eyes at his last text as you put your phone back onto your nightstand. You always told him that you hated the pet name, but he saw through your lie every time with his signature shit-eating grin plastered on his face. Preston, though your partner in your assignment, was also your rock, as he had been since the day you met him during your FBI training days. He was the only one who believed in you. 

At first, you thought it was just because he wanted to get with you; he _was_ the biggest flirt of anyone you’d ever met before, after all. And while he had fully admitted that he’d initially thought about it, Preston never failed to have your back all these years later.

You weren’t entirely sure you could love another person. The idea of giving yourself entirely to another, of trusting them to hold and care for your heart as you would theirs, had never appealed to you. You just weren’t one for notions of “true love” or “soulmates.” If you were, though, you might have thought Preston was yours in another life.

Or maybe you were so starved of affection and love that you were projecting it onto the only person who knew the worst bits of you and hadn’t run away.

Sometimes, you really hated being a profiler. Nothing stopped the self-psychoanalysis. 

Fuck. You should’ve stayed at Spencer’s.

You scowled and opened the bottom cabinet of your nightstand to find the bottle of vodka you kept there. Storing it there was definitely not one of your finer or classier choices, and it definitely spoke to some underlying issues you had yet to confront head on. But you couldn’t have cared less. You uncapped it and took a long pull, welcoming in the burn of liquor against your throat.

You set your alarm for 7am, turned off the lights, and went to bed, hoping that it was enough to stave off the nightmares for the night.

It wasn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi this chapter is a little longer then what they'll usually be but I hope that's okay! thank you for reading!


	5. Night Descending, Dumb and Dark

Just as you had cases that left you feeling like another piece of your soul had been chipped away, you also had cases that reminded you of why you worked this job in the first place. These were the cases where everything fell into place: where families were reunited, where killers were apprehended before too many people got hurt, where you all came back to Quantico a little less burdened than you left. And when these cases didn’t take you far into the night, the team often went out to celebrate at a bar close to headquarters.

More often than not, you would opt to leave after a drink or two. But you had found yourself chasing that feeling of lightness in your chest more so than you had in the past. You wanted to feel unburdened, and like your new addiction to Dr. Spencer Reid, you found that spending time with your coworkers began to leave you with similar feelings.

Not that they hadn’t in the past--you always enjoyed hanging out with them--but the thrill of yours and Spencer’s dirty secret added a new level of entertainment to your group dynamic.

Like, now, he was feeling you up in the bar bathroom (despite his initial sputtering about how dirty public restrooms were) while the rest of the team sat twenty feet away digging into their second round of drinks. 

You didn’t think the night would end up like this. While you and Spencer had been relishing in each others’ company regularly after starting your arrangement, you typically only used each other for release after particularly difficult cases or during times of emotional distress. God knows that the looming deadline over your head from the Director wasn’t helping. You were distracted, and you could tell that the others noticed. They just knew you well enough to let it go.

It had started with glances across the table. 

You had all settled into the table at the team’s favorite local bar, O’Keefe’s, with smiles on your faces. Once the first round of drinks had come to the table, you all raised your drinks to toast.

“And as we say _in Italiano_ , _beviamo alla nostra_. Let’s drink to us,” Rossi said before you all clanked your glasses together.

Because the man himself had offered to buy (as he always did, much to your eternal delight), you and Garcia had ordered some ridiculously pink cocktail. It was some potion of frozen rosè, coconut rum, vodka, and club soda, with frozen strawberries sprinkled on top. You were surprised it was even available; it was wildly inappropriate for the time of year after all, with the nippy air of November beginning to saturate Virginia, but it came in a comically large frosted glass and had a tiny pink umbrella sticking out of the top. How could you resist?

Morgan scoffed at you and Garcia when he saw it. “That’s the kind of drink teenagers get when they’re using a fake ID for the first time,” he laughed.

Garcia stuck her tongue out at him. “It’s pink. It’s boozy. And it has a tiny pink umbrella. It’s the kind of drink for people with _joy_!” she cried in response before taking a hearty sip.

She was certainly correct about the first three things, particularly the second. You had barely had half of your drink before the edges of the world began to spin. Then, Garcia became correct about the final thing she’d listed. Even if “joy” wasn’t in your vocabulary on a regular basis, the imitation bliss that accompanied social drinking seemed close enough.

You had noticed Spencer watching you closely from his seat, particularly the way your lips closed around the straw, how the top buttons of your shirt were open and accentuating your cleavage, how your eyes, while slightly unfocused, smiled along with the rest of your face. He found you mesmerizing. You knew it, too.

So you had stood and excused yourself to the restroom, tugging your pencil skirt down as you went.

Then you waited and counted down the minutes.

1… 

2… 

Spencer walked around the corner into the small hallway that housed the two private bathrooms in the bar. Before he could get a word out, you grabbed him by the tie and dragged him into one of the restrooms, locking the door behind you.

Your lips crashed together, even as his body went rigid. His hands settled on your hips, and he pulled his face back. “Y/N, wait--”

“We have maybe two minutes before our simultaneous absence gets suspicious. Probably less given that, you know, we’re all profilers,” you cut him off, your own hands roving across his chest to his shoulders.

“We’re not--Y/N, this is a _public restroom_. Do you realize how dirty everything is?”

His lips said one thing, his hands said another. You recognized the way they gripped you, trembling with barely restrained desire. So you smirked and rubbed yourself up against him, and his eyelids dipped as a whisper of a sigh left his lips. You pulled him back down to you, and between kisses, he continued to half-heartedly protest:

“Every surface in here is--”

Kiss.

“I mean--”

Kiss.

“The door handle alone has--”

Kiss.

Kiss.

Until he finally gave in, giving a conflicted groan before his hands went to the back of your thighs and he hauled you up, settling your ass onto the corner of the sink.

You wrapped your legs around his hips, pulling him flush against you as you sunk your fingers into his hair. His hands quickly slid the tight skirt up your thighs so he could grind himself against you. You allowed it to go on for ten more seconds.

And then you pushed him away and hopped off the sink. You turned around to look at yourself in the mirror, bending over just the slightest to let your ass brush against the bulge in his crotch, and you finger combed your hair back into place.

Turning around to face him, you patted him on the shoulder and strode past him, out of the bathroom and back to your seat. You had to bite down the stupid grin on your face, but even when the others around the table gave you glances below raised brows, you raised your glass and took another gulp. Not even profilers looked twice at a tipsy agent.

Reid was gone for another few minutes before he returned, only barely concealing how ruffled he was. His hairline was damp, like he’d splashed water over his face, but it still couldn’t hide the faint, pink flush dusted across his face. He shot you a scowl from across the table and hid it behind a sip of his Arnold Palmer. 

“Spencer, you good?” Morgan asked as he wrapped his arm behind Spencer’s chair.

Spencer drained the rest of his drink before he responded, “Yep, just super tired, guys. I think I might head out.”

Garcia, who had drained her drink and was definitely feeling the effects, shook her head rapidly. “ _Noooo!_ You’re half the party, Spencer!”

This caused a bout of laughter among the team, one that Spencer responded to by scrunching his face in indignation as he began gathering his things. 

Then Hotch stood. “You know what? It _is_ getting late. I should be heading out, as well.”

“Me too. I want to say goodnight to my boys before they conk out,” JJ agreed.

“ _No!_ See,” Garcia said, “once boy-wonder taps out, then the rest of you head out, too! It’s his little genius brain, I swear to _God_ . He’s mind-controlling all of you to be good responsible adults!” She turned to Spencer, whose mouth was twisting with amusement despite himself. “Spencer, you’re _young_ and _spry!_ How are you the one both _bringing_ the party _and_ always _killing_ it?! That’s almost as bad as me having to _drag_ Miss Morose--” She pointed an accusing finger at you “--to _every_ girls’ night.”

You resented that, mainly because you thought you were usually quite amicable to girls’ nights. Maybe it was your overall lack of bubbly enthusiasm that gave off the impression that you didn’t. While, yes, it wasn’t your most ideal use of time, you _did_ enjoy spending time with the team. It was just a dangerous fine line you walked between obligatory socializing with the team and getting too attached to them.

“Alright, silly girl,” Morgan said, standing and slinging his coat back around his shoulders, “I think that teenager’s-first-drink cocktail went to your head. Let’s get you back home.”

“ _Boo_ ! All of you guys are _killjoys_!”

“Yeah, yeah, talk and walk, mama.”

As Morgan herded Garcia out of the bar, you said your goodbyes to the rest of the team and headed out yourself. And then you waited by your car in the near empty lot across the street and counted the minutes again.

You didn’t even make it to a minute before Spencer exited the bar, too, JJ and Prentiss hot on his tail. He said something that made JJ toss her head back in laughter, waved his goodbyes to each of them, and then spotted you across the street leaning against the passenger door of your car. 

Ever cautious, he looked both ways before he crossed the street and jogged over to you. You greeted him with a smile. He didn’t return it.

“What was that?” he demanded when he finally approached you.

You rolled your eyes. “Reid, we weren’t going to get it on in the bathroom at O’Keefe’s.”

“Then why did yo--”

“ _I_ didn’t do _anything_ . _I_ just went to the bathroom. You’re the one who followed me.”

Reid didn’t have much of a response to that. His mouth opened like he might protest, but instead, he sighed and ran a hand through his hair.

You patted your coat pocket, feeling for your car keys. You fished them out and walked around to the driver’s side door facing towards the back of the empty lot. 

Spencer walked around with you, and when you looked up at him with a raised brow, he reached for your hand. You closed your hand into a fist around your keys, shoving both your hands behind your back and leaning against the car. He dipped his head down.

He breathed a laugh through his nose before brushing his lips against yours. Then he leaned down even farther, his hands sliding onto your hips, circling back over your ass. His breath tickled the side of your face as he whispered, “Don’t think for a second that you’re driving.”

Before you could process it, he grabbed your wrist and brought it around front again to try and pry the car keys from your hand. 

You gasped, “ _Excuse you_ ! I’ll have you know that I’ve driven in _far worse_ states.”

Spencer’s eyes widened, and he stopped trying to dig the keys from your hand. “That--Y/N, you’re a _federal agent_! That’s not something to be proud of!”

“I’m just _joking_. Calm down.”

“Okay, give me the keys. I’ll drive you home.”

That gave you pause for two reasons. When you thought about it, you realized that you didn’t even know Reid could drive. Rationally, you assumed he could, but you’d just never, _ever_ , seen him behind the wheel, even on the job. Even _you_ had your share of brief high speed races to catch an unsub.

You _also_ didn’t want him coming around your house. Were he tech-literate, he could likely find your address through some deep snooping, even after you had tried desperately to erase your name from all public records. Fortunately for you, Spencer abhorred modern technology, so that wasn’t much of a concern.

You knew it was stupid, but it was just that once he--or anyone else on the team, for that matter--knew where you lived or visited your apartment, another piece of you would be handed over to them. You just didn’t want to cross that line with any of them. 

So you said, “No way. I’ll take my chances with an Uber and pick up the car tomorrow.”

His eyes flashed with disappointment, and you had to stop yourself from laughing. You didn’t think the minute of teasing him in the bathroom would elicit such a reaction from him. Maybe you should have. 

Throughout the past few weeks, Spencer had become more comfortable with both you and the situation. It wasn’t surprising given how awful every case had been, and how after each one, regardless of how late it was when you returned, you’d gone over to his apartment. This was the first case you’d had in a long while that didn’t leave one of you haunted and looking for reprieve from that.

Now, you knew that your arrangement still held up during times of celebration, too. That made you smile.

You clicked your car keys, and the telltale _beep_ indicated the car was unlocked. You loved your car, and in that moment, you were grateful that your past self had dug into your inheritance and splurged on an expensive SUV. You had bought it for the safety features, and because by your logic, the bigger and wider the car, the more likely you would come out of a crash with minimal damage to your person. Before you started at the FBI, you didn’t care much about self-preservation, but once you had purpose again as an agent, you had to see it all through until the end.

When you bought the car, you hadn’t thought of all the potential benefits of all of the leg room in the backseat.

Now, your mind was racing with possibilities.

So you stuck your keys back in your pocket slowly. Spencer watched your movements carefully, as if wondering if you were _actually_ going to drive under the influence. To be honest, you knew you were fine to drive; you didn’t live too far away. But even still, you couldn’t in good conscience drive off right then and there while the warm buzz of that ridiculously pink cocktail still ran through your veins.

Maybe you could sweat some of it out.

You reached a hand up and cupped it behind his head, biting your bottom lip. The carefully disappointed look on his face didn’t last long, but even as a smile ghosted over his lips in anticipation, he made no move. 

So you did, instead.

You dragged your hand around to his jaw, swiping your thumb across his lips, while the other hand slid up his chest. It settled on the junction between his shoulder and neck, where you toyed with the collar of his button down, your fingers brushing against the heating skin on his neck. Even through his coat, you could feel a slight tremor wrack his body. His eyes fluttered shut as he leaned forward, pressing your back more firmly against the driver’s side door. His hands went to either side of your body to cage you between them.

Then, finally, he could resist no longer. His head dipped, and he gently took your lips with his. 

You weren’t in the mood for gentleness.

The hand on his jaw slid to the back of his head again, your fingers seeking purchase in his brown locks. His hair was always plush, and it always looked like it was begging to be touched. Who were you to deny it such a simple pleasure, especially when it was one you thoroughly enjoyed?

You pulled him closer to you, nipping his bottom lip in hopes that he’d get the message. He breathed a laugh through his nose as a smile threatened to tug his lips from yours. Still propping himself with one hand on the car, he used his freehand to grab your hip and pull you flush against him.

Your arms wound around his neck as the two of you devoured each other, steadily increasing pace and intensity until you were breathless and panting. You pulled away from him and leaned your head back against the window.

He took the opportunity to trail kisses from your jaw, to your neck, and back up again. His tongue darted out against your skin, and you couldn’t help the quiet sigh that rose from your lips. You pushed him away a bit and looked up at him.

“Don’t do _that_ again,” he breathed, referencing you denying him much of anything in the bathroom of O’Keefe’s.

You threw your head back again with laughter. Then, you took your hand in his and walked two steps to the back door.

You opened it and gestured for him to get in.

He paused, looked at you, then the backseat, and then back at you before it clicked in his head. His eyes widened. “ _Y/N_ , we’re in _public_.”

“Okay, well I _could_ just order an Uber ho--”

He clambered into the backseat without another word, and you bit down your laugh as you followed. Once you closed the door behind you, his hands were on your hips, dragging you to straddle him. You raised your brows as you bit your lip to conceal your smile. Evidence of his arousal was already pressing into you. You rocked against him, and he leaned his head back onto the headrest of the seat with his eyes closed.

“Why are we doing this here? Indecent exposure is a class one misdemeanor; that’s up to twelve months in jail. You should know this,” he said breathlessly.

You rolled your hips against his again, teasing a groan from his lips despite his words. You leaned down to his ear and whispered, “Do you _really_ want to wait? You seemed pretty ready to go in O’Keefe’s.” To punctuate your point, you slid your hands down between you and palmed him. His grip on your hips tightened, and despite his protests, he made no objection when you started unbuckling his belt.

You could tell he wanted to argue, and you knew that rationally, two federal agents getting it on in the backseat of a car was not only a bad look, but also embarrassingly juvenile. But in these few weeks you had learned much more about Spencer, especially about his bedroom preferences. While you leaned towards submission in times of emotional distress, he indulged in a rare dominant side of himself, and they showed through not so much in the actions of what you did when you got together, but the demeanors you took on.

But, now, it seemed like he was inclined to yield to you.

You wanted to work with that.

“Reid,” you murmured, pulling him into a searing kiss as you continued slowly undoing his belt and pants buttons, “if you really want me to stop, I will stop. All you have to do is say.”

He was silent for a few moments, only interrupted by his own heavy breaths and sighs. When he finally spoke, his eyebrows furrowed, his face scrunching up a bit. “No, I’m just, uh--” he swallowed thickly, and you fought back another grin, “--trying to weigh the consequences with the benefits. Because, you know, if we get caught, that’s… that’s going to be an uncomfortable conversation with Hotch, because if agents in his unit are apprehended for public indecency, he _will_ hear about it, and--and given the second rule of our arrangement, I--I just--”

“Reid, look out the window.”

He finally cracked his eyes back open, but they remained half lidded, clouded with clear desire. His gaze flickered to the window facing the street. Not only was the parking lot around you empty, but the street outside was fairly void of patrons as well. Given the dark windows of your car, someone would have to get close and _really_ look in order to see you.

He looked back at you. You kissed him again softly before trailing a line of kisses across his jaw back to his ear. “We’re alone. So turn off that big, genius brain of yours, and tell me what you want.”

He took a few more seconds, lolling his head back against the seat again and exposing his neck to you. You continued your trail from his ear down to his neck, licking and sucking softly at his pulse point, and then further down to his collarbone as you loosened his tie and unbuttoned the top few buttons of his shirt. 

Spencer mumbled something reminiscent of a swear before his hands started moving, quickly pushing your pencil skirt, which had already bunched up around your ass, even higher up to your hips. When he was satisfied with the placement, his hand came around your front, brushing your hands away from his crotch where his buttons and zipper were already undone, and his fingers slid into the front of your underwear. A dark chuckle rose from his throat as he discovered how wet and ready you were for him, but as if he couldn’t help himself, he pumped his first two fingers into you. You moaned quietly, rocking your hips forward onto his hand.

His arm was bent at an odd angle; it couldn’t have been comfortable for him. But his heel pressed against your clit, and your body seemed to move of its own accord, rising up and down on his hand. He kept his eyes on his hand, watching you fuck yourself on his fingers.

He crooked his fingers towards him so he could rub the anterior wall. That just spurred you forward, and you desperately rode his hand.

But it wasn’t nearly enough.

“Reid, please,” you whined as your body arched into him.

He licked his lips. “I don’t have a--”

Your hands went to either side of his face and you cut him off with a kiss. “I take birth control, and neither of us has had a different sexual partner in a while. We’re both clean, so I’m down if you’re down.”

He paused, considering it for _one_ second, before removing his fingers from you. His hands moved to his own crotch, where he made quick work of freeing himself from the confines of his pants and boxers, before they flew back to your hips. He kissed you again as you pushed the crotch of your panties to the side and sunk onto him.

His head rocked forward onto your shoulder, a groan ripping from his throat as you took him in all the way to the hilt. 

Ordinarily, you would have gone down slowly, teasing him, rocking in and out at a torturous pace until he took matters into his own hands and started fucking you from underenath. But you weren’t in the mood for slow, or for teasing him. You just wanted him.

So you took up a fast pace, your hands gripping the head rest behind him to anchor yourself. You began panting, whines of pleasure filling the air, and he grabbed the sides of your face to take your lips with his. He was breathing heavily through his nose as he took up an equally merciless pace with his kisses, sucking your bottom lip, flicking his tongue against yours. You loved the way he kissed you, like he couldn’t taste you enough, like you were an illusion ready to fade away lest he cease his actions. He kissed you like you were the only thing he’d ever wanted, and even if you knew it was just a facade for these forbidden moments between you two, and that as soon as you finished, you would return to being professional colleagues and friends, you liked selfishly indulging in his want.

It was sloppier here, though. Your teeth clacked together, and your lips would miss each other every other stroke, but neither of you cared. You were partaking in a desperate frenzy for the other, ready to forsake all other responsibilities and care as long as it meant you could continue building towards that climax together. 

When you started getting close, your thighs began trembling, both with pleasure and with the effort of your rhythm. He noticed, and began matching you stroke for stroke, never once letting you falter until your vision shattered and you tumbled off that edge.

Your body curled into him with one final drawn out moan, and with a few final, uneven strokes, he followed suit, spilling himself deep into you. It was a different sensation--not bad, but not what you were used to. The thought of the mess you’d have to clean up when you finally drove back home briefly crossed your mind.

You exiled the thought quickly. That was a problem for you in half an hour, after you dropped him off at home.

You collapsed against him, your face settling into the crook of his neck. His skin was damp and heated, more so than usual because you were both still nearly completely dressed and wearing coats. His hair was plastered to his skin with sweat beading on his forehead. You were sure you looked similarly; you certainly felt as much.

After both of your breathing had calmed down, he wrapped his arms around your torso and held you. He was still buried inside you.

You fought the urge to push off him and remind him of rule four of your arrangement: no cuddling (for prolonged periods of time). You weren’t one for cuddling in general; it made you tense and clammy. You’d much rather just fuck and be on your way afterwards, but Spencer was different.

You weren’t entirely surprised when he would reach out to you for those few moments post-coitus, especially after the shitty cases you were both still reeling from. But this wasn’t an “I need a distraction” fuck, so when his arms closed around you, your body instinctually locked up. He must have noticed, but he said nothing.

You gave him a minute before you pushed off him. He seemed inclined to hold on, but let his arms fall down to his sides.

After flopping back onto the seat beside him, you began righting your skirt and underwear. He began doing the same, and as you grabbed your car keys and shrugged your coat off, you turned to him.

“Do you want a ride home? I hope you know that I would never actually drive under the influence. I do feel fine to drive, though.”

Spencer seemed dazed. He squinted his eyes and shook his head, raising his forefinger and thumb to his eyes and rubbing. “Yeah, that’d be great,” he said.

You nodded and crawled over the center console from the backseat and into the driver’s seat. Checking your mirrors, you put in the key and started the engine.

Then you looked back at him in the rearview mirror. Something was off. You didn’t know what. Usually, you were pretty good at reading the team, especially Spencer, but the fact that you couldn’t pinpoint what was up with him left a bad feeling in your gut.

“Hey,” you said as you backed out of your parking spot. “You okay?”

He looked up into the rearview mirror at you and gave you a tight lipped smile. “Yeah, yeah, I’m great.”

You considered pressing for more, but you decided against it. If he wanted to tell you, he would have.

The drive to his apartment was silent, and when you dropped him off, he leaned forward and gave you a swift peck on the cheek before exiting. “Thanks for the ride,” he said.

“No, thank _you_ for the ride.”

He paused in the doorway of the car, one leg out on the concrete, and he looked back at you, exasperated. You burst out laughing as you waved goodbye.

The door shut, and you couldn’t help but smile a little softer to yourself the entire drive home.

And when you arrived at your apartment, the smile vanished. Normally, the solitude of your apartment was welcomed. But now it felt cold. Vacant.

You told yourself it was nothing, that you were just tired and now sober, but you knew that a tiny part of you missed the company of your team.

Before that thought could get too frightening, you popped into your office and looked at the photos hanging from the corkboard on the wall, reminding you of why you needed to be alone for now. 

The fact that the reminder comforted you at all was perhaps scarier than finding yourself longing for the companionship of your team, even if it was just for a moment.


	6. Each Night to Owe

Salsa night with Prentiss, JJ, and Garcia was a better time than you anticipated. It helped that you were _very_ liquored up. Prentiss wasn’t exaggerating when she said that this would be “Salsa Night, heavy on the margaritas.” After paying a pricey entry fee outside, you were granted access to bottomless margaritas.

So, of course, you had to drink your money’s worth.

At that point, though, you were positive that the four of you had well surpassed that benchmark. 

Garcia nearly missed her chair when she sat down after bringing the four of you your latest round of margaritas. JJ’s face was flushed from both the drinks pumping through her blood and the exertion of cackling at Garcia as she hauled herself upright. Prentiss wasn’t much different. And you were watching the three of them, swaying in and out of that haze, laughing along. Ironically, this was perhaps the first time you felt present when with the three of them while out like this.

When Garcia fully righted herself, giggling all the while, she shrieked, “Tonight, we drink like queens!” and passed out the next round of drinks.

Prentiss threw her head back with a groan. “Oh, no, I can’t. I think I’ll forget how to get home if I have any more. When I finish this--” she pointed to the half finished margarita still in her hand “--I’m cutting myself off.”

Garcia pouted before turning her gaze to JJ, offering another margarita to her. “JJ, you’re done breastfeeding. This margarita has your name on it.”

But JJ also refused, saying, “Nine plus months of sobriety shot my tolerance, ladies. I barely remember what we were talking about before Penelope went and got the next round.”

“ _Oh_ , we were placing bets on how much longer Y/N is going to be single,” Garcia answered.

Now it was your turn to groan. You ran your hands down your face. “Guys, come on.”

Garcia leaned over the table, grabbing for your hands to take in hers. You leaned out of her reach. “ _Seriously_ ! Even _Derek_ is settling down. As in, chocolate thunder, sexy man, the _world_ swoons when he walks _Derek Morgan_. You have no excuse!”

You pointed an accusing finger at Prentiss. “Why are you going after only me and not Prentiss?”

“ _Hey_ , now--”

Prentiss was cut off by Garcia, who said, “Emily has already subscribed to her life of cats and solitude. There’s still time for you!” At Prentiss’ slack-jawed face, Garcia added, “Not that there’s anything wrong with that! Cats and solitude is better than no-cats-and-solitude!”

JJ laughed, “That’s not _better_ , Penelope!”

“Okay, point is,” Garcia said, “I know you have your whole ‘Miss Independent’ schtick going on, and _I respect it_ , but come on! I want another wedding!”

You choked on your next sip of your margarita. Dating was one thing, but marriage? That was far from the ideal plan for your future. The idea of sharing every aspect of your life emotionally with another person was terrifying enough, but to have everything, from finances to families to material belongings, tied together?

Yeah, marriage definitely wasn’t high on your “to do before you die” list. Neither was talking about your personal life or your life plans with the ladies.

So you buried your face in your hands and groaned, “Guys, please, can we talk about literally _anything else_.” 

“Alright, alright,” Prentiss said, “let’s take her out of the hot seat. But in a similar vein, have you guys noticed a change in Spencer lately?”

Oh, no. That wasn’t much better.

JJ lit up, a grin splitting her face. “ _Yes_ ! I have been _trying_ to get him to tell me about what’s been going on with him. I think he’s seeing someone.”

Garcia gasped, “ _No_ ! How have I not noticed? How do I not know? Why didn’t you tell me earlier, JJ? All gossip in this unit has to go through me; that’s the unspoken rule! Spill everything. _Right. Now._ ”

The conversation was increasingly sobering for you, and you steeled your expression into one of a faintly interested poker face. This was a dangerous game, and a dangerous topic for you to be edging into, and with the absurd amount of drinks pumping through you, you were at a higher risk for slipping. 

As you tried to feign interest, JJ continued, “I don’t know much. You know how Spence is; if he doesn’t want us to know, we won’t. But he seems more… _grounded_? Happier? I don’t know. He just has that ‘honeymoon phase’ glow. I can’t explain it.”

Well, it definitely wasn’t a “honeymoon phase” glow, and was far more an “I’m getting _it_ nearly daily” glow. It had, however, been a few days since your last encounter with him. You had been more busy than usual with Preston, searching through files he sent you from VCAP every night as you both chased down your latest (and most likely dead-end) lead. If he wasn’t calling you every single night for hours on end, you would have run straight to Spencer to try and forget about your upcoming failure. Honestly, it was embarrassing how much you relied on him to get your fix.

Prentiss nodded. “I know _exactly_ what you’re talking about. I’m happy for him. He deserves it.”

Garcia sat up straight in her chair, a devious grin spreading across her face. She dove to her side to where her bag was resting on the ground, and she pulled out her laptop. “Give me _two minutes_. I’ll set up a hotspot on my phone, and then I’ll be able to tell you to whom our Boy Wonder has been talking as of late.”

Thankfully, just as you were about to try and shut down _that_ invasion of privacy, Prentiss cut in. “Hey, no, come on, Garcia. Let the kid have his secrets. He deserves his privacy. He’ll introduce us if it’s legitimate.”

Garcia looked like she might protest, but before she could get the chance, a gaggle of four men approached the table. You could barely conceal your laughter when you saw Prentiss rolling her eyes.

“Ladies,” the tallest of them said as he leaned on the back of your chair. You didn’t need to be a profiler to tell that he was the alpha of the group and had some clear issues with overcompensation. “Can we interest any of you in some _salsa_ dancing?”

“I’m good. Thanks.” JJ held up her left hand to show off her wedding ring.

“Ooo, okay… well, I don’t see any rings on the rest of you lovely ladies, so what do you say?”

As you debated the ethics of pulling out your badge and telling them to fuck off, Prentiss exchanged a look with Garcia. She flashed them a winning smile. “You know, I think the two of us are alright here, but I _know_ Y/N has been waiting for someone to dance with her all night.”

You were going to kill her. 

“No thanks. I’m good,” you said, holding up a hand. 

“ _Aww_ , c’mon, Y/N,” the alpha said. He made a move to grab your wrist to tug you to the dance floor.

You snapped your head around. “Try it. See what happens.”

JJ concealed a laugh with a cough.

The alpha raised his hands in defense, a cocky smile still splitting his face. His brows were raised at the bite in your tone. “Alright, alright, I get it. But if any of you ladies change your mind, we’re just across the dance floor. Come and find us, yeah?” And with that, he nodded towards his pack, and the four of them stalked away.

Prentiss and Garcia burst out laughing.

“Really cute, guys. Thank you so much for that,” you said.

Between peals of laughter, Garcia choked out, “Did you see his face? He was totally _into_ your ‘I’ll beat you up’ energy.”

“Guys like that _always_ are,” Prentiss added. “At any rate, Y/N, you’re too young to not dance with brick-headed losers for a night just because you can.”

She did have a point; youth was fleeting. But that just wasn’t how you wanted to spend it. Still, you stole a glance to the dance floor.

For a bar hosting a “Salsa Night,” there sure was a minuscule number of people actually salsa dancing. And way in the back, across the dance floor just like he’d promised, the alpha leaned against a standing table. 

You accidentally made eye contact. While he waved, you flashed a sarcastic smile at him before turning back to the other women at the table.

Dancing with him was quite frankly the last thing you wanted to do that night. It didn’t help that you had a very clear idea of what the first thing on that list would have been. But this was your first free night all week, and you _had_ promised to go out for girls’ night with them. You couldn’t exactly bail just because of a dick appointment, especially when Spencer likely wasn’t up for it.

You’d overheard (okay, eavesdropped in on) a conversation between him and JJ earlier in the week. Apparently his mom was struggling again and was declining fast. He’d taken a day off to go help her, and had been a bit distracted ever since. You couldn’t blame him.

Even still, you also couldn’t stop thinking about how, the last time you _had_ been together, his head had been between your legs for what seemed like an hour, drawing orgasm after orgasm from you until it felt like you might shatter if he tried to tease just one more out of you. When you were practically begging him to stop, he finally popped his head back up, a small satisfied smile plastered on his face. And when you demanded to know where _the fuck_ he had learned how to give head so well, he, predictably, gave you an extremely clinical answer.

“When you think about it,” he’d said after his monologue about clitoral nerves, “it’s actually all very intuitive, but your surprise likely stems from the sad reality that the average man is far too lazy to actually tailor those universal facts to their respective partner’s sexual idiosyncrasies. It helps that you make it _very_ easy to tell when I’m doing something well. You’re very… _vocal_.” 

You’d returned the favor, of course, rendering him in a similar state of panting and begging. And when you thought about his hand clutching a chunk of your hair as you swirled your tongue around him and bobbed up and down his shaft, your name nothing less than a prayer on his lips as you edged him over and over again until he’d finally had enough and fucked you hard against his mattress, making you cum one last, earth-shatteringly time… 

Your phone buzzed in your pocket, and you were jolted back to reality. You’d missed the entirety of whatever conversation the rest of the girls were having.

You hated to admit it, but your heart soared as you deluded yourself into thinking it was Spencer. It dropped just as quickly when you read what the text actually said and whom it was from:

_Preston: Got word back. it was another dead end. i’m sorry sweetheart._

Well… fuck. You expected as much.

It didn’t stop the crushing disappointment.

You fought to maintain the pleasant look on your face, but dread festered in your gut. Or maybe it was the sheer amount of liquor coursing through you. Either way, the present mind you had earlier in the night had vanished, and you were left feeling hollow again.

“Y/N? Everything good?” Prentiss’ voice sliced through your thoughts.

You looked up from your glass and found all three of them staring at you. It dawned on you that they’d been quiet for a bit. With a tight smile, you nodded and answered, “Yeah, I just got… _very_ tired.”

“Ah, the _booze snooze_ is kicking in, huh?” she quipped. “Maybe we should call it a night. We’re still expected at 9am.”

JJ flopped her head into her hands and groaned, “ _Ugh_ , I’m going to feel like garbage tomorrow.”

You stood up, preparing to get your coat on, but the entire room seemed to stand with you. You gripped the back of your chair for support. “Oh, _shit_ ,” you whispered.

You never truly realize how fucked up you are until you have to either go to the bathroom or leave the venue. You’d planned on taking the metro home, but that didn’t seem like a feasible option now.

Garcia groaned as she stood, too, saying, “Margarita number four is _not_ sitting too pretty.”

“So much for being the FBI’s best and brightest,” you responded, slowly putting your coat on and taking your phone back out to order an Uber for yourself. All in similar states of disarray, the rest of them chuckled at your retort.

You said your goodbyes at the front of the venue and got into your respective cars. When you flopped into the backseat of your Uber, giving a barely intelligible “Hi, how are you?” to your driver, you leaned your head back against the headrest and closed your eyes.

The Director was already threatening to pull the plug on your operation. Two years and nothing to show for it aside from _potentially_ connected murders with nothing but theories tying them back to the man who’s haunted your dreams for nearly fifteen years. He was a ghost in the wind, a phantom taunting you with silence by keeping just out of reach.

If you didn’t come up with something concrete soon, it’d be over. And you would have nothing again: no resources, no partners, nothing but yourself desperate to turn a ghost story real.

You didn’t know if you could go back to that sad life.

And suddenly, your third (or fourth? You couldn’t actually remember if you drank that last one) margarita was threatening to make a reappearance. Vomit riled up in your throat, and you clapped a hand over your mouth.

You were _not_ going to throw up in the back of this Uber. 

Your driver seemed to notice. He started driving a little faster.

By the time he pulled up in front of your apartment building, you were feeling a little less nauseous but no less awful. You thanked him quietly, made sure to tip well, and marched into the lobby.

The doorman on duty, Thomas, waved to you from the front desk. “Evening, Y/N. Long night?” he asked.

“That’s one way of putting it.”

You were going to continue on your way to the elevators when Thomas dove into a drawer in his desk. “Hang on. You got a letter today.”

You stopped dead in your tracks, your eyes falling shut as Thomas swiveled around in his chair to unlock the mailbox for apartment 15F. You already knew what it was.

So you forced yourself to walk over to the desk and accept the letter with a smile that didn’t reach your eyes. “Thanks, Thomas.”

“My pleasure. That’s a fancy letter.” He gestured to the paper in your hands, or more specifically, at the wax seal detailing a cursive _M_.

You just nodded. “Yep. Have a great night, Thomas.”

Thomas bid you a goodnight, and you were finally on your way up in the elevators. You sagged against the wall with your eyes closed. The beginnings of a migraine were already starting behind your eyes.

When you were finally behind the locked door of your apartment, you looked down at the envelope and the seal. _M_ for _Monet_. It had no return address (it never did), and your name and address were written down with ostentatious calligraphy in gold ink.

Even though you knew what the letter contained, you opened it anyway.

_The Monet Society of Manhattan invites_

_Miss Y/N Y/L/N_

_and_

_one guest_

_to our_

_Annual Art Auction and Gala_

_on_

_January 31st at 9pm_

_RSVP by January 2nd_

You had no idea how they found your new address after you moved out of New York City years ago. But what drew your attention wasn’t the gaudy lettering or gold detail around the border, but the handwritten note on the back of the card. You blinked. That was new.

_No need to RSVP. I will always have two spots reserved for you. Just give me a call any time. We miss you very much. Don’t forget: D’autres choses peuvent nous changer, mais nous commençons et finirons comme une famille._

_Au Plaisir,_

_Victor Marseille_

A handwritten note from Victor Marseille himself. Anyone else would have been beside herself with pride.

Victor Marseille was the founder of the Monet Society of Manhattan, an elite private social club in the city that your family had been a part of since before you were born. Being a member meant privileges throughout the city: reservations at even the most exclusive restaurants, access to private box seating at any event at Madison Square Garden, and guaranteed entry to speakeasies throughout the city, just to name a few. You’d grown up with the Marseille family. Hell, you practically _were_ family; you loved Victor like you would love an uncle, and your childhood was full of fond memories of playing with his kids. And to his credit, Victor had always gone out of his way to make sure you knew that you were _still_ family to him. He sent you an invitation every year, but you hadn't attended one since you were eighteen-years-old, and hadn't spoken to him since you were twenty-three. You felt guilty for distancing yourself from them so much, but he reminded you of a life you no longer had. 

And reminders hurt.

You zeroed in on the last sentence of the letter: _D’autres choses peuvent nous changer, mais nous commençons et finirons comme une famille._

Other things may change us, but we start and end as family.

You clenched your jaw and shoved the letter back into its envelope. You could practically hear Victor saying the words out loud to you. Family was everything to him, and this was his mantra. But those words were venom in your ears now, and your vision was edged with darkness as a rare tunnel vision took over.

Fuck that. Fuck the Monet Society of Manhattan. Fuck their annual art auction and gala. Fuck “ _D’autres choses peuvent nous changer, mais nous commençons et finirons comme une famille._ ”

Your breathing picked up. There wasn’t enough air in your lungs, or in this room, or in this entire building. So you strode to the windows in the open living room and threw them open, sticking your head out just to breathe the crisp almost-Winter air. But it still wasn’t enough.

Tears pricked the back of your eyes, and you hastily wiped them away.

Not tonight. You didn’t want to deal with this tonight.

With a shaky breath, you grabbed your phone before tossing your coat and bag onto the couch. You went to your office, flinging the letter and envelope onto your desk, and then sought sanctuary in your room.

It was the one place you _tried_ to decorate, specifically for nights like these. You’d painted the walls a pale lavender, lined the windowsill with small plants, and littered monochrome photographs that you’d taken of nature on the walls--mostly fern leaves, flowers, and song birds. 

With your heart still pounding, you turned around in your room, your body both restless and exhausted. Nothing. You had nothing that would make this end, and if not even the copious amounts of sugar and liquor in your body could soothe you, then what--

No. You couldn’t.

Or could you?

Your hands worked of their own accord, scrolling through your contacts and calling the only person you actually wanted to speak to.

He picked up on the last ring.  
“ _This is Dr. Spencer Reid,_ ” he croaked.

Oh, god, he’d been asleep. You glanced at the digital clock on your nightstand. _1:34am_. When did it get so late?

“Shit, sorry,” you answered, “It’s Y/N. I’m sorry. I didn’t--the time--I haven’t checked--”

“ _Wait, wait, slow down. Is everything okay_ ? _Do we have a case_?” He immediately sounded more awake.

“No, no case. Sorry.”

“ _Okay…_ ” He let that linger, like the silence would spur you to tell him why you were calling him so late. When you didn’t answer, he continued, “ _Y/N, are you okay_?” His voice had become softer, careful.

You hated that tone of voice, but you couldn’t bring yourself to snap at him about it. “Yes,” you lied.

More silence.

“Okay, no.”

“ _What’s wrong?_ ” He sounded so concerned. You didn’t want him to be concerned or worried. You _were_ fine--or you would be in the morning. But the words you wanted to say were caught in your throat, and your face was heating at the mere thought of speaking them aloud. 

So you said nothing.

“ _Do you want to talk about it?_ ” he asked.

“No. No, I really don’t.”

He sucked in a breath and then blew it out. “ _Y/N, don’t take this the wrong way. How much have you had to drink tonight_?”

Well, you didn’t expect that. The emotional steamroller that had just hit you felt sobering enough. “How can you tell?”

“ _The intonation of your words changes from what it usually is. The way you say consonants gets drawn out. There are a lot of small things, really_ . _I could go on, if you want, but I also know that you didn’t call me at 1:30 in the morning to hear about your inebriated tells._ ”

Lesson learned: don’t think you could _ever_ get _anything_ past a profiler.

You sat down on your bed despite the fact that you still felt like you might crawl out of your skin. “I was out with Jareau, Prentiss, and Garcia. Girls’ night. You know.”

He didn’t answer at first, but when he did, he said, “ _Are you… calling because you want to come over?_ ” His voice dipped with the implications of his words

“I honestly don’t think I can responsibly navigate the city.”

“ _Are you home? Do you want_ me _to come over_?”

That was the last thing you wanted, actually. But Spencer would drop small hints about how he wanted to see your apartment, whether by way of commenting about how you _always_ go to his place, or offering to walk you home. Were it anyone but Spencer, you would have told them to fuck off.

So you shook your head even though you knew he couldn’t see you. “Yes, I’m home. No, don’t get out of bed.”

“ _It’s really no trou--_ ”

“Reid,” you cut him off, “I just--I mean--this is _really_ stupid. You can say no. I won’t be offended or anything. But I would love a distraction right now. Like this.”

He was quiet for a few beats. “ _How… would that work if we’re not together?_ ”

“I have hands I can use and a mouth to speak from, you know. So do you, if you want to.”

“ _Oh_.” 

That was it. Just “oh.”

So you sped right along and said, “Actually, I’m sorry. It’s the middle of the night. I shouldn’t have called. I’m just going to go to be--”

“ _No, I’m interested. Take your clothes off._ ”

Now, you were at a loss for words, spurred mainly from the shift in his tone as he adopted the authoritative persona reserved for these secret moments between you two.

There was shuffling on his end of the phone, the movement of sheets and the groan of a mattress, and then a quiet _click_ like he’d turned on the light on his nightstand. “ _Are you getting undressed?_ ” he asked as you remained still and silent.

You couldn’t help but laugh under your breath. “Yes, sir,” you said sarcastically as you put your phone on speaker, unbuttoning your shirt to reveal the white camisole underneath.

“ _Oh_.”

“What?” You continued getting undressed.

“ _I know you said it as a joke, but…_ ” He let the silence speak for itself.

At first, you didn’t quite understand what he meant, but then you realized. Sarcasm aside, you’d called him “sir,” and he was into it. You tucked that piece of information away for later.

He cleared his throat. “ _Are you undressed?_ ”

You quickly shed the rest of your clothes until you were down to nothing but your underwear. That seemed adequate. “Yes.”

“ _Lie down on your bed._ ”

You did as told. “Done.”

“ _Okay, this is what I want you to do. You’re going to close your eyes and touch yourself in accordance with what I tell you. I’m going to tell you what I wish we were doing. Does that sound okay?_ ”

“Yes,” you breathed. Your eyes fluttered shut and you let your imagination run wild as he began to speak:

_Spencer is sitting on the armchair in his apartment. You’re sitting on his lap, clad in nothing but your undergarments. He’s fully dressed in his usual work professional attire._

_Your head is lolled back against his shoulder, your gaze pointed up towards the ceiling. Slowly, he spreads his legs, and with your ankles hooked around the outside of his shins, your legs spread with his. He settles back into the arm chair. You relax with him._

_Then his hands, which had been resting on the arms of the chair, move to the tops of your thighs. The muscles in your legs jump with anticipation, and you take a shaky breath._

_He cranes his neck down to plant a kiss on your shoulder, languidly trailing up to your neck, and then back to your shoulder. His tongue peaks out to slide against your skin, and he gently sucks at your pulsepoint._

_His hands slide up your thighs, first on the outsides, and then slowly rubbing closer to the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. You can’t help the sigh that leaves your lips. He smiles against your skin._

_One hand stays there, just beside where you want him most, while the other continues its journey up your torso. He palms one of your breasts through your bra, and you instinctively arch into his touch. He takes his time slowly working your breast before his hand skims across your chest to the other, where it slides underneath your bra. You bite your lip as he begins to circle your nipple with his pointer finger. He keeps his finger light, and goosebumps break out along your skin._

_He stays there for a few minutes, letting you work yourself up as heat floods your core. You’re desperate for him to actually touch you, to have his way with you, to take you as you want him to. You shift on his lap in an attempt to find friction._

_His hand quickly retreats from the cup of your bra and splays out against your sternum to press your body back against his. “Don’t be impatient,” he murmurs in your ear, his breath fanning out against your skin and wracking your body with chills._

_A quiet whine rises from your throat, but you relax back against him without any more complaint._

_One of his fingers on your thigh begins to rub in small circles, edging ever closer to where you’re ready for him. It brushes against the crotch of your panties, and he breathes a laugh as he finds you already beginning to soak through the fabric._

_Then, simultaneously, the hand on your chest grabs at your breast again, he sucks at the junction between your neck and shoulder, and his other hand dives into the front of your underwear and sinks two fingers inside you. You can’t help your hips jutting forward or suppress the cry of pleasure from echoing through the otherwise silent room._

_He yanks you back against him. “Stop moving so much,” he commands._

_You try but your body moves of its own accord, desperate for him to go deeper, faster. Your hips are rolling against his hand._

_So he retracts his hand and settles it back on your leg. The hand on your breast stills. He lifts his head from your neck._

_“Reid,” you breathe, “please.”_

_He chuckles and kisses you behind your ear. He taps two fingers against your thigh. “Well, since you asked so politely. How can I say no?”_

_Slowly--painfully slowly--his hand dips back into your panties. He has two fingers barely skimming over your clit. It takes all of your willpower to not grind against his hand._

_He begins making light, small circles, with just enough pressure to make your body melt, but not nearly enough to get you anywhere close. He’s teasing you; he always does. He likes to make you beg for it._

_He stays at that speed and pressure for what seems like hours to you, succeeding in doing nothing but making you wetter and more desperate. Then, without any transition or warning, his fingers, slick with your pleasure, start moving faster. Harder._

_Your breathing picks up in accordance, and you can’t stop your hips from rocking forward. His hand doesn’t retreat like last time, but the hand fondling your breast moves down to your waist. He presses his forearm against your torso and pulls you back to him again. At the same time, his legs spread even wider, and yours spread in accordance. He hooks his ankles around yours, making sure that you can’t move them back together and detract from the center of your pleasure._

_Your heart is racing, your breathing labored as you get closer and closer. Your back tries to arch into his touch, but the arm across your torso makes it impossible. There is absolutely nothing you can do to try and deviate the building orgasm._

_Ordinarily, Spencer edges you until you’re cursing him out. It’s like an experiment to him; he likes to see how many times he can bring you to the brink and then deny you that pleasure before you’re a complete writhing mess. Then he likes to compare the number of times of edging to the magnitude of your orgasm. You hate it in the moment, but the aftermath is worth it all._

_Now, though, he doesn’t seem inclined to experiment. He maintains his relentless pace, and as you rise right to the edge, you pant, “I’m so close.”_

_He just smiles._

_And when you finally tumble off that precipice of pleasure, the arm around your waist doubles down, keeping you tight against him even as your body tries to curve in on itself with pleasure. Your orgasm ricochets through your entire body, ripping through you hard enough that your moans sound more like sobs. And you can’t move your body like it naturally wants to, and you can’t close your legs even the slightest to try and subvert some of the pleasure through movement. You’re forced to feel it all, even more so as Spencer isn’t easing up in the slightest._

_Tremors wrack your body as you’re hit with wave after wave of pleasure. Everything’s too sensitive; it almost hurts. Keyword being almost._

_When every ounce of energy is yanked from you, and you’re left gulping down air to try and even your breaths, your own hand reaches out to stabilize yourself on the arm of the chair. You grab a fistful of bedsheets instead--_

Your eyes flew open, and you took in the scenery of your bedroom, forced back into reality. Your head was thrown back against your pillows, your hair likely a tangled mess from your writhing.

Spencer cleared his throat on the phone. “ _Did you finish_?” he asked.

You nodded your head as if he could see you. “Yeah. Yeah, I did.”

“ _Was that… was that okay?_ ”

You couldn’t help but breathe a laugh. “That was like a cognitive interview but better, Reid. Thank you.” Then you paused, sitting up with a slight wince from how sensitive your lower half was. “Do you… I mean, did _you_ …”

“ _No, I’m okay._ ”

That gave you pause. “Are you sure? I don’t--”

“ _Really, it’s okay. You can make it up to me next time._ ”

You raised your browns at that. There was something tortured in his tone, like something from this past week, between the job and dealing with his mom, left something dark festering inside him. “Reid, are _you_ okay?” you asked a little more quietly.

He was silent for a while. Then, he sighed, “ _I’ve just had a long week. I’d rather not get into it all now, just… given the context of our arrangement. It seems a little strange to get into the details._ ” That confirmed that it _was_ , in fact, about his mom. “ _But there is something I’ve wanted to try. We can talk about it later._ ”

The brusque tone in his voice left no room for discussion. You didn’t press on. Like you, Spencer wasn’t the best at communicating his feelings. All you could do was remind him that you would always be there to listen.

So you said, “Okay, that sounds good. Thank you, again, for humoring me tonight.”

He chuckled. “ _As long as I’m helping you, it’s never a problem. Goodnight, Y/N._ ”

“Goodnight, Reid.”

You hung up the phone, leaning back against your bed with a sigh. The overwhelming turmoil that was coursing through your veins earlier that night settled back into a dull ache, something that only flared up when provoked. The beast was tamed for now.

But you couldn’t help but wonder, even as you went through your nightly routine and _finally_ settled into bed, if there would come a time when that beast would be freed. You tucked that pocket of fear back into the recesses of your brain. 

You would find another lead. You would rid yourself of this monster inside you. 

You had to believe that, because if you didn’t, then you had nothing. Now that you had a taste of _something_ , you knew you couldn’t go back to that life unscathed.

So you closed your eyes, and that night, you didn’t dream of blood and screams. You dreamt of nothing.

And that left you more unsettled than the nightmares.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one is also a little long! Also, I'll be going back to school soon, so chapters might take longer to write. as always, thank you for reading :) let me know what you think in the comments!


	7. Are Friends Delight or Pain?

The very last thing you ever expected to happen during your time at the BAU was being blindfolded and tied to Spencer’s bed.

Seriously.

But there you were, arms bound to the bars of his headboard and legs spread to each corner by the footboard with a nylon rope securing your limbs. Aside from the sleep mask that obscured your vision, you were entirely naked.. And Spencer, from what you could hear, was pacing around the room.

Or, more accurately, stalking around the room. Watching you, you presumed.

Seven minutes had passed since he left you there at his mercy, and with each passing second, you were growing more and more antsy.

When he told you that he “wanted to try something” on the phone that night, you had expected a conversation about it relatively soon, like the next day soon. But when you brought it up to him the next morning while you both stood by the coffee machine, he stuttered through an excuse about how it wasn’t important, and that you didn’t have to talk about it right then and there. So you just dropped the subject, and he didn’t bring it up again until after the next case, which dealt with an unsub suffering from a schizophrenic break.

You weren’t surprised when he stopped by your desk as you were gathering your things to go home. One look at him--at the weight pressing him down and at the haunted gleam swirling in his brown eyes--and you knew where your night was headed.

At that point, you hardly needed words. So you nodded at him, put your coat on and grabbed your bag, and walked out of the building with him. The two of you rode in your car to his apartment, the trip silent except for the one time you asked if he needed to talk.

He said, “Maybe later,” and turned his gaze to his lap.

So you didn’t press him, and when you got to his apartment, he methodically put his things away before turning to you. You had left your go bag and coat by the couch with the assumption that you would stay the night.

Then he began prattling off about the “research” he had done into domination and submission. A light blush was dusted over his cheeks as he spoke, dancing around the topic of what he _actually_ wanted to try. You knew that Spencer used being dominant as a way to compensate for the lack of control he felt daily in his life (and you didn’t need to be a profiler to figure that out; it was practically psych 101), so you could guess that him wanting to introduce something more intense into your dynamic meant that things were going poorly on his end.

And, as this arrangement was built on a mutual need for an escape from your day-to-day lives, you also knew that you would be down for almost anything he threw your way.

However, when the word “bondage” slipped past his lips, it definitely surprised you.

Your brows had raised when he finished talking, and after a beat of silence, you smiled and bit your bottom lip. “So you want to tie me up with some silk?” you asked, pitching your voice a little lower.

He shook his head and then crossed the room to his desk and took out four bundles of rope. “Actually, silk isn’t the best fabric to use for beginners--at least, according to my sources--” You made a mental note to ask him about those _sources_ later, purely out of curiosity “--Nylon was actually the recommendation I gathered. I hope that’s okay.”

You studied him. He seemed… twitchy. You just wanted to help him feel better.

And, to be honest, you were interested in trying this out with him. 

So you strode towards him. His only movement was his grip tightening on the bundles in his hands. You reached up to intertwine your fingers behind his neck, arching your back into him. “Let’s try it out,” you’d said.

And now, you were.

You had to admit; you were impressed. He tied you down before blindfolding you, and you’d watched him expertly tie intricate knots. You had no doubt that he’d likely looked at a few pictures and knew exactly which steps to take.

Ten minutes must have passed before he actually touched you. He leaned on the mattress a bit, as if you let you know he was there and as to not startle you. His hands were cold, so you flinched away instinctually.

“Sorry,” he murmured. He kept his fingers light, slowly dragging from your hip to your outer thigh, and then back up. A shiver wracked your body.

He paused where he started. The mattress dipped more, and you could only assume he’d taken up perch on its edge. You could feel his eyes on you, scanning up and down your body and analyzing every micro reaction you had. You leaned into his touch as best you could, a silent confirmation that you were fine and that you trusted him.

So he continued skimming his fingers over your body. They brushed down the length of your leg, stopping right where the rope met your skin, and then slowly came back up on the inside of your leg. He neared the flesh on your inner thigh, and just when you thought he would touch you where that familiar desire demanded friction, his hand skipped right over it to your other leg. 

You sighed, if only to convey your disappointment. You heard him breathe a laugh and then felt him continue his trail on your other leg. He dragged one finger down the inside of your other thigh. When he brought it back up, he just barely brushed against where you wanted him with enough pressure for your body to tense up as a soft buzz of pleasure pervaded through your body. Your hips instinctually raised, seeking more, but his hand continued up to your naval. He dragged his finger in a serpentine pattern up your stomach to the valley between your breasts.

Then he paused, tapping his fingers against your sternum. He slowly moved to one of your breasts, where he lightly circled one finger around your nipple. Your back arched into his touch, a quiet whine lifting from your lips.

You imagined him smiling at your reactions. He tended to do that when he would draw whimpers from you, whether it be a small smile to himself or an uncharacteristic smirk at you. He brushed the calloused pad of his finger over the stiff peak of your nipple, and you took a sharp breath. He continued doing that for a few minutes--circling, then cutting across. He relished your other nipple with the same attention before suddenly pinching it between two fingers.

He knew exactly what to do to elicit whatever reaction from you he wanted. It was like every time he touched you, he filed away its result and stored it for later. You wouldn’t be surprised if that’s what he actually did. 

How did you get so lucky to get someone like Spencer as your fuck buddy?

Your moan was cut short by a gasp as he replaced his fingers with his mouth, his tongue now swirling around your nipple while a free hand snaked its way back down your body, pausing at the apex of your thighs. You lifted your hips helplessly, a silent plea for him to touch you.

He laughed against your skin and finally dipped one finger between your folds. You felt him smile at how wet you were. You’d say it was satisfaction of his own work, but for Spencer, it seemed that he just derived joy from getting you off. 

He teased you, sliding his finger up to just below your clit, and then back down to your entrance, never venturing farther than a knuckle in. Your hands pulled against their restraints, your feet flexing in their bounds as well, as you arched again against his mouth. God, you just wanted him to touch you-- _really_ touch you. He knew it, too. 

You’d ask him to do it, but you knew he would draw it out for even longer. This was a game of patience, of who would break first.

And finally, _finally_ , he sank his finger into you. Your hands gripped the ropes tighter, your hips lifting to try and take him deeper. The ropes dug into your skin, and you knew that there would likely be red marks to remind you of this night for at least a day. You couldn’t bring yourself to worry about that now, though, not when he added another finger as his mouth crossed your chest to relish your other breast with the same attention.

And as much as you loved the feel of his hands and mouth on your skin, and as much as you loved the slight bite of the rope against your skin as you yielded yourself entirely to him, you wanted to touch him just as much. You wanted to thread your fingers through his hair, to trail your lips down his neck, his chest, the toned plane of his stomach, and then take all of him in your mouth. You wanted to twine your arms around the back of his neck as he pulled you in for a kiss, inhaling you as if anything less would send you tumbling away. You wanted to feel his muscles jumping beneath your hands as you drew groan after gasp from his lips.

But this wasn’t about what you wanted right now. This was about what he needed, and you were more than ready and willing to be what he needed.

There was always next time.

You whimpered his name, a soft sigh that made the word feel sacred. He smiled against your skin again before kissing the valley between your breasts and lifting his head. His fingers were still deep inside you, dragging in and out at an infuriatingly lazy pace.

Then he moved again. The mattress shifted, and you felt the fabric of his undershirt brush against your body as he went down. His palms went to the insides of each of your thighs, and before you could register what he was doing, his tongue was on you, lapping at and circling your clit.

You pulled against the restraints again in both surprise and the flash of pleasure that shot through your body. He took up a merciless pace flicking his tongue against you, and you couldn’t help but rock your hips against his face. His arms came underneath your thighs, clasping his hands together on your naval. He held tight, effectively immobilizing your lower half and keeping you right where he wanted you.

His name rolled off your tongue again, this time, pleading. He didn’t respond; he just continued his ministrations, never once easing up or slowing down.

And when you rose to that edge, when your breathing came quicker and the knot in your abdomen grew to burst, he moved away. You could practically see the small smirk on his face.

“Reid, seriously?” you groaned.

“What?” he asked, shamelessly coy.

“Are you--can you just--”

“Where’s the fun in that?” After he said it, he bent his head back down to just barely tease your clit again with his tongue.

Your head dug back into the pillows, another groan falling from your lips as he continued slowly brushing his tongue in circles. You tried raising your hips again to him to try and spur him forward, but he moved away from you entirely. His arms left your thighs, and you found yourself missing the warmth of him between your legs (and what he had been doing there, of course).

The mattress dipped and jumped as he maneuvered around the space, until finally, you heard his feet hit the carpet that peaked out from under his bed. Then his hands were on your knee, slowly sliding down and tickling you ever so slightly before engulfing your ankle. His fingers moved quickly to untie your first leg, and then the other.

You kept them limp against the mattress, open to his manipulations as he saw fit. He kept your legs spread but bent your knees, your feet now resting flat against the mattress.

Then you heard the telltale jingle of his belt and the rustling of fabric as it fell to the ground. You bit your bottom lip to keep down the grin that was threatening to split your face. “Impatient?” you teased.

His answer came in the form of touch, first with his fingers brushing back over your knees up to the outside curve of your hips, and then tapping the side. You lifted your hips, and he wedged a pillow between your tailbone and the mattress. He clambered back onto the bed. You felt his weight on the mattress between your legs, and then, his body was over yours. His warmth radiated down to you, calling to you like a siren would a sailor. 

You had to fight the instinct to wrap your legs around his hips and draw him into you. Your body vibrated with desire, and when you finally felt him rub up against your slit, you sighed. 

“Reid…” you whined. 

He breathed a laugh, and it fanned across your face. He bent down to kiss you. As he pulled away, he slid the blindfold up from your eyes, and as your eyesight adjusted to the dim lighting and focused on him, the edges of your world still blurred, he slid into you.

He went slowly, teasing in and out of you as he went deeper inch by inch, even as you shifted your hips in a desperate attempt to hasten him. He kept his steady pace until he was buried in you completely, and after sliding back out at the same, torturously slow pace, he quickly reached down and hooked his arm underneath your knee, jerking it up and balancing the back of your shin on his shoulder before plunging back into you before you could take a breath.

Your moan was cut off by a gasp as he started fucking you into the mattress. Even without the restraints on your ankle, you were rendered immobile by the position and his weight pressing down on you. Your hands tugged against their restraints above your head again, the nylon biting back in response. You’d thought you’d be put off by not being able to grab at him, and while you still wanted to, you also liked the idea of him denying you that small, simple pleasure. Of being completely at his mercy, forced to be his plaything until you were finished.

Spencer hissed a curse, the hand on your thigh grabbing your flesh harder as he continued drilling into you. You opened your eyes just long enough to catch a glimpse of him: sweat beading across his brow, eyes scrunched closed, jaw slightly slack as he panted through his mouth. You could’ve stared at him for hours like that--this secret side of Reid that was dedicated to you. He was beautiful. Powerful. And he was on the verge of making you cum because of it.

His eyes opened, and he caught you staring. All of a sudden, the harsh lines on his face softened. He craned his neck down again to take your mouth in a searing kiss, and you barely noticed the burn in your leg as he stretched the muscles as you came. He devoured all of your moans, dragging out your pleasure even as your legs quivered in response. When you threw your head back against the pillows, he trailed kisses down your jaw and to your exposed neck, sucking and licking until he found his own release.

He stayed there for a bit, his head buried in the crook of your neck, your leg still wedged onto his shoulder, until he finally rolled off of you and untied your hands from the headboard. When they were freed, you brought them to your face, and in the dim lighting, you could make out pink lines streaking across your wrists. 

Spencer noticed them, too. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, and he gingerly reached out to take your hands in his. He looked over your hands and wrists before standing, striding to the bathroom and rifling through the medicine cabinet from which he brought back a bottle of lotion.

“Do they burn? There’s aloe in this, so it should help. I’m sorry; we should have discussed the possibilities of injury and--”

You couldn’t help but laugh as you sat up. “Reid, come on. It’s mild rope burn at _worst_. Don’t lose sleep over it.”

It didn’t stop him from squeezing a glob of the lotion onto his hand, rubbing his hands together, and then lightly running them over your hands and wrists. You let him do it, even if you found it unnecessary.

When he was finished, he set the lotion aside on the nightstand, and the two of you stared at each other. 

You could tell something was still bothering him, that some distant corner of his mind was still running itself into the ground with angst. “Reid?” you asked, “what’s going on up there?”

When he stayed silent, turning his gaze down to his lap to avoid eye contact, you sighed. You slid off the other side of the bed, and you felt his eyes tracking you as you began picking up your clothes and putting them back on. You found his discarded shirt on the ground and tossed it to him.

“I’m going to go put on some coffee. Why don’t you get dressed and just hang out on the couch, yeah?”

You didn’t wait for him to respond, instead walking from his bedroom and crossing the living room to his kitchen. You’d spent enough time here that you knew where things were (and that everything had to be placed back precisely where you found it). As you brought out two mugs and started brewing a fresh pot of coffee, you could hear the creaking floorboards as Spencer exited his bedroom, too.

He appeared in your doorway. He’d ditched what he was wearing earlier and was now clad in a cable knit sweater and his flannel pajama pants. The sight forced a smile onto your face. You couldn’t help it; he just looked so out-of-characteristically domestic and casual.

And you would have said as much if you didn’t notice the sad gleam in his eyes.

You’d made it clear to Spencer that you weren’t the most physically-affectionate person, but even you couldn’t bear to see him like that. So you opened your arms. “You want a hug?”

Spencer looked like he might decline, but then nodded and took the few steps towards you. He enveloped you in his arms, nuzzling his head down into the crook of your neck. You fought the instinct to tense up and instead forced yourself to relax into him. Your arms wrapped around his torso, your face pressing into the soft fabric of his sweater. 

You pulled away to look up at him. “Is it about your mom?” He nodded, lips pressed tightly together. “Is she alright?”

Spencer let out a heavy sigh through his nose. “No, she’s… declining. And every time I think I’ve found a new place, a new trial, a new… treatment, it always seems like she comes out worse than she went in. And I--” He took a step back, his face scrunching as he raised his hand to his eye, rubbing with the heel of his palm. “--I don’t know. I thought I’d have cured schizophrenia by twenty-five. And I didn’t even think about Alzheimer's as a possibility, so I’m already so behind on trying to figure that out. I mean, what’s the point of being a genius if I can’t even help her.”

Your eyes softened. He put so much pressure onto himself, _expected_ so much of himself. It didn’t matter that he’d already accomplished more than most would in a lifetime; it wouldn’t ever be enough if he couldn’t help the people who mattered most to him. 

That understanding jabbed at your heart, and you realized that though you had always connected with Spencer, you shared a similar, deep burden. You related to his turmoil more than you wished you did.

But as you opened your mouth to respond, you heard your phone begin ringing from your bag in the living. It was a custom ringtone - “Before He Cheats” by Carrie Underwood. You’d assigned it to Preston’s contact years ago as a joke after an argument over country music. You had said that “Before He Cheats” was the only acceptable country song, and Preston, hailing from Dallas and being an avid country music consumer, still to that day hadn’t forgiven you for the statement. 

Spencer looked back at you, a smile lifting to his face even as his brows furrowed when you didn’t move to pick it up. “Are you going to get that? It could be a case; I left my phone on silent.”

You shook your head. “It’s not a case; trust me.”

The ringing stopped, and the air stilled, the only noise in the kitchen coming from the softly brewing coffee pot. It was late at night, and after the case and your activities, you were exhausted. But the smell of freshly brewed coffee was always invigorating, and you were determined to stay until Spencer had a little more hope in his eyes.

“Reid,” you began, only to be cut short once again by Carrie Underwood’s voice blaring from the living room.

Even as you closed your eyes and blew out a breath of annoyance, Spencer chuckled. “Maybe, uh… maybe you should just get that.”

“Yeah,” you sighed, “sorry about that.” 

You knew what the call was about; you just didn’t want to hear it. Another dead end, another disappointment, another “we’ll find something next time.”

You shuffled past him to the living room. He turned around, still leaning against the doorframe as he tracked you with his eyes. You dug through your bag and, just as the chorus of the song was about to end, thus ending the call, you picked up.

“Hey, Pres.”

“ _Christ, finally. I texted you like a million times, already. Didn’t you check your phone?_ ” In the background, you could hear a quiet rumbling, like he was driving a little over the speed limit. “ _We got something. I’m coming to pick you up at your apartment._ ”

You went still, your heart lurching in your throat. You stole a quick glance back to Spencer and gave him a tight smile as you held up one finger. He nodded and pushed off the doorframe, disappearing into the kitchen. The clatter of mugs and dishes followed you as you slid into his bedroom and closed the door behind you. “What are you talking about? I told you the last lead was a bust. Is this something new?”

“ _Nope. Y’know, for all your talk of being one of the BAU golden girls, you sure miss a_ lot _._ ”

You rolled your eyes, even as your mouth went dry and your heart began racing, and as if keeping aloof and nonchalant would protect you from further disappointment. “Are you going to tell me what it is?” you asked, forcing your voice to remain level.

“ _It’s not definitive. Do you remember the list of potential sex trafficking victims we got?_ ”

You did. The week prior you had been diving through a list of women from the New York tri-state area who had all gone missing when they were around eighteen-years-old, all of whom’s parents were murdered in their homes. All extremely low risk victims on track for higher education. Theories going around your circle said that they were victims of trafficking, but you’d gone through every woman on the list, putting their pictures through a facial recognition software that you’d helped develop (with a database to which the Director granted you access) on every black market website or dark web thread that you could find and couldn’t get a single match. You’d inadvertently helped the Anti-Trafficking Coordination Team officially bust a suspected trafficker, but hadn’t furthered your own cause in the slightest.

A small part of you resented that. You hated yourself for it. 

You nodded even though Preston wouldn’t see it. “Yeah.”

“ _I reached out to Maryanne’s unit in New York. Don’t tell Director Boucher, or… anyone, really. I did a lot of begging for this, Y/N. I went down a fuckin’ rabbit hole, and it was_ really _under the table. But I got intel: one of the women on the list isn’t actually missing. She’s been in witsec as of four years and three months ago_.”

“That’s impossible. The list was updated last month. Director Boucher himself told me it was current.”

“ _And witsec and the Anti-Trafficking team kept her on the list, sweetheart. As far as anyone else who looks into the database is concerned, she’s still missing. Now, if anyone finds out that she’s_ not _, then Marshal Thompson gets the axe, so seriously, this stays between us. I cashed in a favor for it. But she’s living in Maryland under an alias. I’ll tell you everything when I get you. If we leave now, we get there before eleven. So pack your shit and grab your gun, because we finally got fuckin’_ something.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but nothing came out but a breathy laugh. Your face grew warm as tears pricked the backs of your eyes. Hastily blinking them away, you ran your hand down your face and asked, “Uh--shit, I’m not home right now. But I have my car. Just send me the address, and I’ll meet you there.”

“ _No can do. I swore to Thompson that the info would travel in person only. Where are you?_ _I’ll pick you up there and then we’ll go._ ”

You paused. Telling Preston that you were at Spencer’s seemed… unwise. It would prompt questioning from him, and you didn’t feel like delineating your sexual relationships with Preston.

Of course, you could always lie, but you spent so much of your time lying to the BAU that you needed Preston as the one person with whom you could always be honest. If Preston asked, you knew you would tell him.

So instead you gave him the intersection of Spencer’s street and told him to pick you up there instead of the exact address.

“ _Oh, you’re way closer than I thought. I’ll be there in less than five._ ”

Shit.

You said your goodbyes and hung up the phone. You took two deep breaths as you settled into a neutral facade, and you walked back into the living room.

Spencer was sitting on the couch, legs crossed and hunched over a thick book on his lap as he bit his thumb nail, with two mugs of steaming coffee resting on the coffee table in front of him. Guilt bubbled in your gut.

You _wanted_ to stay and talk to him, to help him work out whatever was eating away at him, but… 

You’d been working too hard for too long with too little results to feel badly about chasing down this lead. You had to go. You needed to go.

“Hey, Reid,” you began, slowly approaching the couch. 

He looked up, a smile on his face.

“I’m really sorry. I have to run.”

For half a second, the disappointment shone as clear as day on his face, but he recovered quickly. You wished it didn’t bother you as much as it did. “Oh… okay. Is everything alright?”

You began gathering your things, shoving clothes haphazardly back into your go-bag. “Yeah, a friend of mine just needs some help. It’s nothing serious, so don’t worry about it. But I’ll, uh--” You shoved yourself into your coat and looked around the room to make sure you hadn’t forgotten anything as you shouldered the duffle bag. “--I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Yeah. See you tomorrow.”

You ignored his tone of voice; if you didn’t, you’d have to confront the fact that you were a shitty friend, and considering you didn’t have many friends to begin with, you weren’t looking to lose another. It would’ve been one thing if he knew why you had to go; you thought he would understand. But you couldn’t drag anyone else into this. You wouldn’t.

By the time you arrived on the corner of the street, Preston was already there.

You tossed your bag into the backseat, and when you slid into the passenger’s seat, you shoved the case that held your Glock 19 by your feet.

Preston had a half eaten burrito in his left hand. He was in the middle of chewing when he asked, “Fun night?” as he raised his eyebrows at you.

You rolled your eyes before looking back at him. It had been a while since you’d last seen him in person. The two used to hang out pretty regularly, if nothing else to just get dinner every once in a while and catch up; he _was_ the only person you let into your apartment, after all. But as you grew in your careers, you had little time to actually spend on each other. And with time running out on your operation, both of you had been doubling down on your searching. 

He had stubble indicative of a few days without shaving on his jaw, and his thick, dark brown hair had grown out a bit. Last time you saw him, he sported a fresh new haircut--shorn close to his head on the sides, longer on top. His forest green eyes were vibrant and alive, if not a little tired.

“Finish chewing before you interrogate me, you animal,” you replied as you strapped in. “And give me a bite. I’m starving.”

He swallowed and flashed you his award-winning toothy grin, one that highlighted the dimple in his right cheek and the smile lines that were deep seated around his eyes. He nodded to the paper bag on the center console. “I got you one for the road, sweetheart. Figured you’d need a snack. Clearly, I was right.” He pulled out of his spot and began driving. 

As you dove into the bag and took out your burrito, you said, “If you’re going to talk, tell me what I need to know. Otherwise, please shut up and drive, alright?”

You took your first bite and realized you didn’t remember the last thing you’d eaten that day. You likely would have devoured it in less than five minutes if Preston weren’t beside you, briefing you on who this woman was and what to expect.

Her name was Elena Weber. She was the daughter of two Wall Street sharks who spent their summers out in Montauk. She graduated in the top 10% of her class and was on track to go to Dartmouth that fall. She went missing two weeks before she was supposed to start her freshman year of college. CCTV footage from a bodega in Queens caught her getting into a car before disappearing completely. Preston pulled out a tablet to let you analyze the footage yourself. She was calm--happy, even--and waved at the driver as they pulled up to the curb with a cute little jump. So she knew the driver and was excited to see him, you noted, bile rising in your throat. She threw her head back in a laugh as she slid into the backseat. The car drove off, and that was it. 

“Parents?” you asked.

“A housekeeper came by the house the next day and found them butchered like all the rest. The Director headed the investigation himself and couldn’t find anything. These guys are fuckin’ good, Y/N.”

You swallowed even as your mouth went dry at the thought and at the memories stirring in your chest. The fear. The disgust. The unmistakable feeling of knowing you were going to die.

You shook away the thoughts. “She confirmed it was trafficking?” you asked.

Preston nodded, his grip tightening on the wheel. “Yeah. According to her, the guys transferring her to the new location were new on the team. Got into an argument with each other, and she was able to slip out and hide until they stopped looking for her. She said she was with three other girls, but she doesn’t know where they went. The shit that Thompson told me… it’s fucked, Y/N. But we do know that this wasn’t kept-in-cages-burlap-sack-over-the-head trafficking. She said the men who handled them were always well dressed--designer suits and all that--and the deals went down in expensive hotels. Said she was drugged out of her mind constantly, though, so she couldn’t name a single identifying feature or location or person. Would’ve been sold but the sick fucks told her she wasn’t pretty enough, so…”

“So they used her for prostitution instead?”

He nodded again. “She’s going by Samantha Lark, now. Livin’ just outside Rockville.”

You leaned back in your seat and thought. “Hang on. If she was able to get away, even if she was drugged, she didn’t get _any_ usable info? Even about where they found her?”

“According to her, they’d been driving for days. She has nothing about where they were keeping her or where they were going or where they’d been. She was in California when she got out, but when they told her for the first time, she was still so out of it that she could barely understand the _word_ ‘California.’ The guys in Anti-Trafficking tried to do a cognitive interview, but… it made her worse, you know?” He stole a glance across the center console to you, a sorry smile on his face. “But they aren’t you. I think you’ll be able to get something out of her, if that’s something you’re ready for. If not, that’s okay. I can try.”

You avoided his gaze and instead opted to lean your head back to look out your window. It could’ve been unrelated. The monster you were searching for might not even be related to a human trafficking operation, but…

You had to hope. You had to believe, just for a second, that Elena was a step in the right direction.

The rest of the drive was quiet, the emptiness only filled by the low humming of the country music station on the radio and the rumbling of Preston’s engine. At one point, he reached out to you and brushed your hand with his. He kept his eyes on the road ahead of him. You turned your palm over to take his hand for a moment, squeezing to let him know that you were fine.

When you arrived at an understated, one story flat, that knot in your stomach grew again. You wanted the hope blooming in your chest to vanish; pessimism was your old friend, and in your darker days, when you turned to your favorite books and poems to offer you escape or wisdom, you often turned to one stanza of a Dickinson poem:

_Undue significance a starving man attaches_

_To food_

_Far off; he sighs, and therefore hopeless,_

_And therefore good._

Therefore hopeless, and therefore good.

Therefore hopeless, and therefore good.

You blew out a breath and stepped out of the car. Preston had parked down the street by a small grove of trees. Gravel crunched under your feet as the two of you approached the door, and when Preston rapped his knuckles on the door, he kept looking over to you out of the corner of your eye.

_Therefore hopeless, and therefore good._

You fizzled into neutrality, forcing yourself to be nothing more than the picture of composure and professionalism.

A fogged porthole window in the door opened. The house was dark, and she stood to the side so that you couldn’t see all of her face. You noticed her hair, though: cropped bleach blonde instead of the billowing dark brown from her missing person’s photo.

“Can I help you?” she asked. Her voice was higher than you thought it would be, and incredibly soft, like years of screaming had sentenced her to a lifetime of whispers.

Preston flashed her a smile as the two of you held your badges up to the window. “Hello, Samantha. We’re with the FBI. I’m Special Agent Christopher Preston, and this Supervisory Special Agent Y/N Y/L/N. We just have a couple of questions for you, if you don’t mind.”

She was quiet for a few beats. “That depends.”

Despite yourself, your gut twisted at her words, at the hesitancy, at the reluctance. You cleared your throat. “I’m with the Behavioral Analysis Unit, and Agent Preston is with the Violent Criminal Apprehension Program. We’re looking into a years-long cold case, and we think that you might be a key in solving it.”

“How?”

“There are some… parallels between your case and ours,” you explained, struggling to keep your voice from shaking. “I know how difficult this may be, but we were hoping you would let us conduct a cognitive interview.”

Another pause. Then, “No. I’m sorry.”

You hated the way your heart dropped. “I--it’ll only take a couple minutes. Please.”

“I didn’t remember anything useful then, and I won’t now. I’m _trying_ to forget and move on. I can’t do that when you people keep trying to _force me_ to relive it. It’s _sick_.”

“I know this is difficult, but--”

“My answer is _no_. Please leave my property.” 

She slammed the porthole window shut.

You swallowed. 

_Therefore hopeless, and therefore good._

But despite yourself, you hadn’t been hopeless, and the gaping pit in your stomach opened up, devouring your heart and soul and every fragmented hope that you had for this trip.

Preston cast you a sidelong glance, his lips pressed tightly together, before digging into his pocket and producing his wallet. He slid a business card from the front pocket and then wedged it through the mail slot on the front door. “Sorry, sweetheart,” he said quietly.

You just nodded, turning on your heel to walk back to the car. “That’s fine,” you replied over your shoulder. “We’ll look into whatever information is already out about her and her disappearance. I’m not a moron like everyone else who handled her case. I’m sure they’ve missed something. I’ll find it. It’s fine.”

“Again, Director Boucher led her investigation, and--can you _slow down_?”

You didn’t. You kept up your brisk pace to the car, but when you reached the passenger’s side door, you stopped completely. The idea of just getting back into the car, driving back to Quantico, having to tell the Director that you had yet another deadend…

Your body felt electric, like every nerve and fiber of your being was burning.

_Therefore hopeless, and therefore good._

Your body moved on its own accord. You whirled back around and took a swing at the air, just to try and turn off the primitive response to your immense frustration, but your arm extended too far. Your knuckles raked against the tree beside which Preston had parked, and you grabbed your hand back with a stifled curse.

“ _Jesus_ , Y/N!” Preston yelled as he ran over. “The fuck are you doing?” He took your hand in his and looked over your knuckles to find the skin torn off and large scrapes quickly filling with blood.

You drew your hand back and hissed, “I’m fine. Let’s just go.”

“We’re not going anywhere ‘til you wrap that.” When you opened your mouth to protest, despite the throbbing that was beginning to take over your right hand, he added, “I just got the interior cleaned. You are _not_ getting blood in my car.”

You fought the urge to roll your eyes as he popped the trunk and rifled through a duffle bag, procuring a box with first aid materials.

“What are you, a nurse, now?” you asked harshly.

He shoved a small bottle of alcohol and gauze in your direction. “What are _you_? A fuckin’ teenager? Don’t be pissy at me because you’re angry. I’m frustrated too, but you don’t see me punching a _fuckin’_ _tree_.”

While he spoke, you uncapped the bottle of alcohol, poured it onto the gauze, and slapped it onto your knuckles without caring about the pain. You invited the burn against your skin; you welcomed it, even as you hissed a curse at its bite against your skin. It detracted from the fire burning you from the inside.

When you finished, you passed the bottle back to Preston, who watched you with brows raised, and he handed you a new gauze pad and athletic tape.

As you began wrapping your hand, Preston said quietly, “Maybe you should ask the BAU to help.”

“No.”

He sighed heavily through his nose. “We’re running out of time, and unless ‘Samantha’ has a change of heart, we still have jack shit. You’re always bragging about how great y’all are. You know if anyone could help, it’d be them.”

“And _you know_ that Director Boucher required this operation to be unofficial and confidential. So it will remain _unofficial_ and _confidential_.”

“How many times has the BAU been put on the stand for going against regulation and _still_ come out being the FBI’s golden child? You’re _untouchable_.”

“Boucher has given me more than I deserve for this. I owe him discretion, and I will _not_ put the BAU under more fire.”

“Y/N--”

You cut him off by tossing the rest of the athletic wrap back to him. “This isn’t negotiable, Preston. I will solve this fucking case by myself if I have to, but I will _not_ go against orders, and I will _not_ drag the BAU into it.” He shot you a hard look, and you sighed. The energy that had taken over your entire being just moments earlier was seeping out of you. “Can we please just go back to Quantico, now?”

“Depends. Are you gonna abuse another tree?” His voice was flat, and his eyes didn’t flicker with the same amusement they usually did when you bantered, but he said it softly enough that you knew he was just worried.

“Preston, please.”

There was a beat of silence between you, and you stared at each other. The sudden exhaustion on your face must have registered with him, because he sighed through his nose again and shook his head before digging his car keys out from his pocket. 

“When this is over,” he said as he turned the engine and began driving, “we’re takin’ a vacation. Just you and me. I don’t give a shit where.”

Despite your mood, you snorted a laugh. “I think I’ll be dead before that happens, but a vacation sounds nice.”

He reached across the center console and brushed his hand against yours. You didn’t take it, but you nudged him back before you settled back into your seat and rested your head against the window. As you watched the scenery pass, you took a deep breath and closed your eyes.

_Therefore hopeless, and therefore good._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this took so long to write! I've been busy back at school, but here's an extra long chapter to make up for it! lmk what you think!


	8. Ashes Denote That Fire Was

When you walked into the bullpen the following morning, sunglasses on and a quad-shot cappuccino in hand, you weren’t surprised at the raised brows you received from Morgan. To be fair, you _did_ look hungover. But it wasn’t the remnants of a night drinking that plagued your morning, but the singular hour of sleep that you were able to get.

As soon as you got back to your apartment, you were in your office, running through every single electronic file from Elena’s case in a desperate scramble to find _something_. You hadn’t yet, but that didn’t mean you wouldn’t. Even if it meant hacking into the fucking Witness Protection database, you were going to find something.

“Wild night?” Morgan asked with a grin as he took in your disheveled appearance.

“No,” you responded, “just a very long one.”

Before you could even settle into your desk, Hotch rounded the corner. While walking by, he said, “Y/N, my office, please,” and headed to his office himself.

You sighed, hanging your head. 

“Damn, Y/N. It’s not even nine o’clock. What’d you do?” Morgan’s eyes were wide with amusement. 

“Guess I’ll find out,” you mumbled in response. You shed your coat and tossed it onto your chair. Then you picked up your cappuccino from your desk, took a long sip, and headed to Hotch’s office after him. You barely gave Reid, who had just arrived, a nod of acknowledgement as you walked past.

You stepped over the threshold of Hotch’s office door. He was standing behind his desk, and he gestured for you to shut the door behind him. After doing so, you sat down at a chair across from him.

You blew out a breath. “Not going to lie, Hotch. I kind of feel like I just got pulled into the principal's office.”

Hotch settled into his own office chair, shuffled a few files and papers out of his way, and then clasped his hands together on the desk. “I just have a question for you.”

You raised a brow at him, an indication to ask away.

“Why did I receive a call this morning that you and an agent in ViCAP went to the home of an individual in Witness Protection last night?”

Fuck.

It was grounds for disciplinary action at best. At worst, you could lose your job. In all fairness, the regulations in place for Witness Protection and breaching confidentiality were for the safety of the individual, but it made your life that much more difficult.

You didn’t know what to say. After several beats of silence, you quietly answered, “Because I did?” You weren’t going to lie to Hotch. You _couldn’t_. Any lie you’d conjure up would get debunked before your very eyes and likely land you in hotter waters than you were already in.

Marshal Thompson had guaranteed Preston discretion, but you didn’t account for Elena calling witsec to report the two of you. You hadn’t exactly hidden your intentions when you arrived.

Hotch sighed through his nose. “You understand why that’s an issue, correct?”

“Yes.”

Another beat of silence. You stared at one another, neither breaking eye contact or backing down.

Then, lowering his voice as if someone could hear from outside the door, he said, “This is very unlike you, Y/N. Why would you dig into confidential witsec cases?”

You didn’t have an answer for that, at least one that was both truthful and respectful of Director Boucher’s wishes. That was how deep this operation ran; not even Hotch was allowed intel on it.

So you kept your mouth shut and finally looked down, focusing on the buckles of your shoes.

He spoke again. “Is everything alright? Are you involved in something that I should know about? It should go without saying that this stays between us, but I need to know what’s going on with you. If there’s an internal investigation over this, that’s the only way I’ll be able to help you. But you need to be honest. I will know if you’re lying.”

Hotch had a point. There was no reason for you to have that information, no reason for you to know anything about “Samantha Lark.” You wondered if Preston was getting a similar interrogation from his ViCAP unit leader.

You thought back to what Preston asked you the previous night, about asking the BAU to step in and help you. It was the last thing you were thinking of doing, but perhaps you could let Hotch know the bare minimum.

Just in case something ever happened to you. Just so that, if the worst happened, the BAU would at least have something reminiscent of closure.

So you sighed and asked, “This doesn’t leave this room?”

“No.”

You sat back in your chair, crossing your arms and fixing your gaze on his desk. It was easier to speak without seeing his eyes boring into you. “I’m… heading a classified, very unofficial operation under the instruction of Director Boucher. The individual in question that I visited last night was someone who could have been vital in the case.”

“But they refused to help.”

You nodded. “The only people involved are myself, an agent in ViCAP, and a field agent in New York City. The operation doesn’t exist in any records or databases. And it will _never_ exist in any records or databases.” You let your words and tone speak for itself, to convey how dire it was that the information you gave to Hotch stayed in the room between them.

It was okay for you to say that. You didn’t disclose any information about the operation itself, no classified intel was leaked. It was just generalities, and surely telling your boss about how you spent most moments of your freetime was okay.

Or maybe you’d grovel to Director Boucher and beg for forgiveness for even disclosing that there was such an operation underway.

Fuck.

Hotch studied you, as if to see whether you were lying. This time, you held his stare, offering nothing but a quirk of one side of your mouth as if to say “that’s it. That’s all I have for you.”

Finally, he nodded. “Okay. I will keep that in mind. And Y/N?” You raised your eyebrows as he dug through a drawer in his desk. He placed a roll of bandage wrap on the desk. “You should change the bandage on your hand before you go out.”

You looked down at your hands in your lap. You’d been squeezing your hands together throughout the conversation, and red speckles were beginning to show through the gauze and bandage tape you’d wrapped around the scrapes this morning.

When you’d hit the tree, you couldn’t have cared less about the injury to your knuckles. Now, it was proving to be a bigger pain in the ass than you realized. Every time you flexed your hand, the wounds reopened and burned. It wouldn’t take terribly long to heal, but it was still an inconvenience, and moderately painful.

You gave him a pained smile as he handed you the office waste bin by the side of his desk. You made quick work of changing the bandages and made sure to wrap the soiled gauze and bindings in tissues before tossing them away. 

As you stood to leave again, Hotch added, “You know that no one in the BAU would hesitate if you asked us to help.”

You glanced back down at him. You knew that Hotch would see through you, but it didn’t make the statement any less uncomfortable on your part. All you could give him was a nod of your head and a quiet, “Yes” before you made your way out of his office.

He didn’t say anything in your wake.

The bullpen had filled up at this point, with agents and staff occupying every desk and milling about the empty space.

Spencer watched you exit Hotch’s office, and his eyes continued to track you as you sank back down into your desk chair. You leaned back in your seat and lolled your head against the backrest. You would have given anything to just crawl back into bed and shut out the world for a few hours. 

“Is everything okay, Y/N?” Spencer asked, his voice low as to not alert the rest of the BAU.

Your eyes fluttered open and found him leaning towards you. “Yes, Reid. I’m just tired.”

He gave you his signature tight lipped smile and let silence linger for a few moments. “Was your friend okay?”

“Yes. Really, I just had a long night. Don’t worry about it.”

Spencer opened his mouth to speak again, but was cut off by Prentiss approaching with a mug of hot coffee. “ _Ouch!_ What happened there?” she asked, pointing to your injured hand.

You watched Spencer look down to your hand. His brows furrowed as if he’d just noticed. His eyes climbed back up and met yours, and he cocked his head in question.

You raised your hand up while you shrugged. “Cooking accident,” you lied. Telling them that you, in all-consuming frustration, had punched a tree like an adolescent boy wasn’t high on your to-do list. “I was grating cheese, and my hand slipped.”

“Oof, yeah, that hurts. I’ve got neosporin on my desk if you need it.”

“I’m alright, but thanks, Prentiss.”

She tipped her head in your direction as she moved on to her own desk, settling down and shuffling over papers and folders just as Spencer was called over by JJ. He cast you one last, side-long glance before scurrying over to see what she needed.

As you slid your laptop out of your bag and began setting up at your desk, you had to suppress a long, exhausted sigh. A migraine was beginning to form behind your eyes. The high amount of caffeine in your drink probably made it worse, but you had no intention of tossing it away. Maybe you could wear your body out so much that your mind would have no choice but to shut down with it. 

You were used to exhaustion; it was as familiar to you as your own face. But there was something frightening creeping into this bout--resignation.

Hopelessness was a friend. Hopelessness managed expectations. Hopelessness kept your heart from shattering. But resignation was a curse, an executioner with the axe raised high. And you were finding it harder and harder each day to keep away from the paper thin line between those states of being.

Your laptop _pinged_ with a notification and drew you back from your woes.

An email from Director Boucher.

And you thought the worst of the day was over. 

You skimmed through it before standing up again and straightening your blouse. The email was sent to you and Preston demanding that you both come to his office immediately. So you ran a hand over your face, forgetting about the mascara that you’d tried to put on this morning to make yourself look a _little_ less dead, and began walking to the elevator.

When you arrived, you knocked on his office door before letting yourself in. Preston was already there, lounging in a chair across from Director Boucher’s desk. You’d have yelled at him for the impropriety, but Preston had never been one for manners around Director Boucher. He barely addressed Boucher with the minimum amount of respect required for someone who held his entire career (and the future of it) in his hands.

Boucher was sitting at his large, leather desk chair with his hands clasped on the wood in front of him. He smiled warmly at you as you entered, and you tried your best to return it with equal cordiality.

“Agent Y/L/N, thank you for such a prompt arrival. I know this was very last minute,” he said, gesturing for you to sit in the chair beside Preston. Boucher’s ever so slight French accent rounded his words.

“Of course. What can we help you with, Director?” you answered. You crossed your ankles as you sat, instinctively pointing your knees at an angle instead of directly in front of you and crossing your hands on your lap. Your back straightened, and your shoulders rolled back. You fought the urge to rub your hands together.

“I’m sure your unit leaders have already brought up your inappropriate use of confidential information pertaining to an individual in Witness Protection with you. I do apologize for that; I told them not to take it to the individual units, but everyone down in Witness Protection is… _sensitive_.” He looked to you as if you might laugh at his quip, but you were too busy trying to manage the burning in your cheeks.

“Yeah, I got ripped a new one, so thanks for that,” Preston grumbled.

Amusement flickered on the Director’s face. When you had once apologized for Preston’s attitude after a meeting, he merely chuckled and told you that he found the impertinence funny. “Entertainment,” he’d said. “He keeps it interesting.”

The director looked to Preston and said, “Chief Dummel wanted to suspend you, but I denied the request. You _should_ be thanking me.” 

You could tell Preston wanted to bite back at him, but instead, kept quiet and leaned back farther into his chair. Thank god for that. Chief Dummel, the unit chief for ViCAP, was notoriously harsh. Preston often called him Chief Dahmer because he seemed like he’d “eat you alive.”

You’d told him the joke was in poor taste. Preston had still laughed.

Preston blew out a breath. “Alright. So if that’s the case, what did you need us for?”

“Well, judging by the lack of enthusiasm, I would guess that your little trip was all for naught, yes?”

You swallowed. “That would be correct, yes.”

The director pinned his stare back on you, his piercing, icy blue eyes like daggers. The levity slowly faded from those eyes. You recognized the expression his face settled into. You knew what he was about to say.

“You know, you two have sterling track records and extremely high success rates for the cases you take on. With both of your skill sets, I would have guessed this case to be solved within six months of its initial launch,” he said. You struggled to keep all your micro-expressions under control as he continued, “and I’m beginning to wonder if, given that, there even is a case at all.” His eyes flickered to you again. There was something reminiscent of empathy lingering there, but it was quickly suppressed by authority.

Even as your throat went dry, you managed to say with a steady voice, “Are you terminating the operation?”

In your peripheral vision, you saw Preston look at you with a soft expression. You didn’t acknowledge it, and instead, stared down the Director.

He could pull the plug on this. It would be fine. Sure, you’d lose any funding and access to necessary databases, but you could still solve it on your own. You knew you could. You had to. Otherwise…

“I’m not terminating anything, Y/L/N.”

You let out the breath you’d been holding as discreetly as you could.

Director Boucher continued, “But I’m finding it harder and harder to justify funneling funds, resources, and time into this. You have been chasing the same dead-ends for two years with nothing substantial to show for it. I will support you both through one last lead, but if the next thing you find ends in nothing…” He gave you a sympathetic smile. “I’m very sorry, Y/L/N, but I’ll have to end the operation.”

A part of you wanted to protest as his words settled into you. You wanted to ask how he could end an operation that should have meant as much to him as it did to you. You wanted to show him the images of the mangled, bloodied bodies that haunted your dreams and force him to want justice for them.

But instead, you nodded and let your gaze drop to the mahogany desk. “I understand, sir. We’ll select our next lead carefully.”

“I’d expect nothing less. I’m on your side, Y/L/N. You know that, right?”

You nodded again but refused to look up, even as Preston’s eyes bored into you, too. 

Silence settled between you three before the Director cleared his throat and said, “Well, that’s all I needed from both of you. Preston, you’re dismissed, but I’d like to talk to you, Y/L/N, for a few more minutes.”

Preston scoffed, “I’m dismissed? What is this? Detention?”

The Director said nothing, instead just gesturing to the door. Preston mumbled swears under his breath as he went and shut the door behind him.

Though you knew you didn’t need to comment on Preston’s behavior, you didn’t need Director Boucher having any more reason to think less of your work. “I’m--he’s--well, he’s frustrated,” you stuttered. “We both are. You know his attitude.”

“I know it, and I know it well,” he laughed. “I won’t hold you for too long, but I did want to inform you of an opportunity.”

You finally looked up, your brows furrowed. “I’m sorry. What kind of opportunity?”

The Director leaned back into his chair, ditching the uptight and professional persona he maintained when in the presence of others. He even went so far as to loosen his tie before leaning his chin on his fist. “To be perfectly frank, Y/N, I’m growing concerned about your obsession.”

Your eyes fluttered shut. A lump rose in your throat, and you swallowed thickly. “It’s not an obsession, Director Bouch--”

“Stop that. When it’s just the two of us, it’s Samuel. It’s always Samuel to you.” His voice shifted, a soft cadence that tugged at a deep memory in your brain overtaking his tone.

You sighed and said, “It’s not an obsession, Samuel. I’m seeking justice. I think I’m entitled to that.” Your voice had gone quiet, all authority fizzling out from your tone. You were _so_ tired, too tired to keep face in this meeting.

“You are, but they wouldn’t have wanted this for--”

“Stop,” you cut him off, raising your good hand to rub your eyes with your index finger and thumb. The migraine was returning. “Stop. I know what you mean--I _do_ \--but please… don’t.” You hated the way you sounded--weak, desperate, young. Like a child begging not to be scolded.

Despite everything you’d accomplished in your life, you supposed at your core, that’s still all you were.

Pathetic.  
Samuel sighed heavily as he evaluated you. “The New York City division has been asking for you again. They want you to be the unit leader for their field agents. I think the leadership position would be good for you.”

“I don’t want to leave the BAU. I enjoy working here.” 

“And I think you would be of more use away from serial killers and murder scenes.”

“With all due respect, Samuel, you and I both know that isn’t true.”

He rubbed his hand down the length of his chin. His voice grew quiet when he said, “It’s not healthy for you to be surrounded by so much death. When you approached me two years ago proposing this operation, I wanted to believe you would find him. I think it’s time to be realistic, Y/N, and consider whether you’re just spinning ghost stories.”

You _had_ considered it. Every god-damned morning you considered it. Every time you looked in the mirror, every time you grabbed your gun and badge before heading to work, every time you felt your gut twist _again_ when you came up with nothing, you asked yourself what the fuck you were still doing. It was hard to remain hopeless, sometimes, when you were desperate for an outcome.

But all ghost stories and legends were spun from truths, and you _were_ going to find the origin of this one.

“You said it yourself,” you shot back, “I’m an excellent agent. I’ve done exceptional work here, and I’ve saved countless lives. I will not leave the BAU, and I _will_ solve this case, with or without the bureau’s assistance. You can tell the New York City division that my answer, again, is no.”

Samuel studied you. You didn’t back down from his stare, even as that throbbing behind your eyes grew more pronounced.

Concern shone in his eyes, almost as much as his stubbornness did. You knew he was only worried. That was all anybody seemed to be when it came to you. In a softer tone, you added, “I know you’re just trying to do your job, but please, just let me do mine, too. Trust me.”

Finally, Samuel sighed once more and closed his eyes. “Fine. There’s an approved transfer request in your file, though. If you change your mind, the job is already yours. Just think about it. Please.”

“Fine. Is that all?”

“Yes, you’re free to go. Why don’t you leave a little early today and get some rest. You look like you could use it.”

You wasted no time exiting his office. In the hallway, Preston leaned against the wall opposite to the door, his arms crossed against his chest. He didn’t say anything when you walked by. He just trailed behind you with his hands shoved into his pockets, into the elevator, and then exiting when you did on the BAU’s floor.

You stopped outside the glass doors. “You didn’t need to follow me.”

“I just wanted to make sure you were alright.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

He gave you a look, lowering his voice as he said, “Sweetheart, you know I wouldn’t say this unless I really thought it, but maybe Boucher is right.”

“He’s not.”

“Y/N--”

“ _He’s not_.”

It was childish. You knew it was. Talking to Boucher always made you feel juvenile, like you had something to prove to him, that you were more than the fractured child you once were. But Boucher was wrong about there not being a case, and he was wrong in thinking that you were better off back in the City.

You were going to prove it.

“Pres,” you murmured, “I won’t force you to stay on this with me, but I’m not giving up. Even if he ends up killing the operation, I--”

“ _Oo! Oo!_ Y/N!”

The heavy clomp of heels accompanied Garcia’s words, crescendoing down the hallway. Your eyes shut tight as each step she took reverberated through your skull like a stray bullet, and Preston huffed a laugh under his breath.

You turned to face her. “Hi, Garcia.”

“I’ve been looking _everywhere_ for--” She cut herself off as she noticed Preston standing beside you. He was still looking down at you tenderly. Her eyes widened, and then narrowed, and her lips pursed. “For _you_ . I have been looking everywhere for _you_. For my entire life. Wow. You are just…” She waved her palm in Preston’s direction.

You looked back over to him. There were bags underneath his eyes just as there were under yours, and years of knowing him told you how utterly exhausted he was, even if he looked composed as ever. But even still, Preston was, well, attractive. Very much so, actually.

He was tall (taller than Spencer, now that you thought about it), with an athletic frame to fit, and always wore well tailored button downs and slacks that accentuated his stature. He had a smile that lit up rooms, forest green eyes that crinkled with shallow set smile lines when he grinned, and a strong jawline that was always peppered with stubble.

When you were both younger and would go out to get drinks together, he would routinely have women approaching him at the bar. At the time, you thought it was annoying, because the last thing Preston needed was an ego boost. Now, it was just entertaining.

Unless the person fanning the flames of his ego had caught both of you at a bad moment. Then it was less entertaining.

Preston gave her a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Hello. I’m SA Christopher Preston.”

Garcia stuck her hand out, and he shook her extended hand gingerly. “Agent Penelope Garcia. Technical analyst for the BAU, but official title being technological wizard and goddess. And also one of Y/N’s bestest, best friends in the entire world.” To emphasize her point, she flung her arm around your shoulders and pulled you in close to her.

He chuckled, “Pleasure to meet you, Penelope. I, uh, I’ve gotta get back, but I’ll see you ladies around.” As he departed, he gave you a pointed look, one that you chose to respond to with a dismissive wave of your hand. Your conversation with him had been interrupted, but you knew it was far from over.

When the elevator doors closed behind him, Garcia whirled around to face you again. “Speak now. Who is _that_?”

You cleared your throat and began walking back to your desk. “You heard him. That’s Special Agent Preston.”

“ _No_ , _nu-uh_ ,” Garcia insisted as she strode beside you, “that was _not_ an agent-to-agent-professional conversation I walked in on. You can’t just have a sexy agent friend, _who’s definitely not a friend_ , and _not_ expect _me_ to have _questions_!”

“Garcia, I’m begging you to lower your voice.” You said it partly because you didn’t need the entire BAU thinking that you and Preston were an item, but also because her voice was grating against every nerve in your brain. You squinted through the harsh fluorescent lights of the bullpen before rubbing the heel of your palm into one of your eyes, as if it might alleviate the ache.

When you looked up, you saw Garcia still staring at you, eyes wide with anticipation. You sighed. “He’s not my ‘sexy agent friend.’ He’s just my friend. We were in the academy together. That’s it. Now, you said you were looking for me? Do you actually need something from me, or…”

She perked up. “Oh! Yes!” As she began prattling on about the details for a potential case and your opinion on it, you sunk into your desk chair, restraining yourself from putting your coat over your head to block out the light and muffle the sound. You managed a somewhat coherent response that was good enough for her.

When she had left to return to her office, you leaned back and closed your eyes.

The soft clatter of someone placing a dish on your desk made you open them again, and after blinking hard against the light, you looked up and found Spencer standing over you. Irritation burned in your chest. It wasn’t his fault; you had no reason to take it out on him, but god, no one could give you even a _second_ to breathe without needing _something_.

“What.” you said flatly.

Spencer raised his eyebrows at you, and then pointed to your desk, where a fresh mug of ginger tea was brewing. “Sorry. You’ve been like that for twenty-seven minutes. I was getting myself coffee, and I just figured you could use something, too. I saw you rubbing your eye earlier. Ginger is great for headaches, you know. A few studies in _Phytotherapy Research_ found that its anti-inflammatory compounds work in the same way that COX-2 inhibitors do. It’s good for patients with arthritis as well.”

Normally, you’d listen intently to whatever Spencer had to say to you, but you were stuck on “twenty-seven minutes.” Hadn’t you just closed your eyes? Did you fall asleep and not realize?

Maybe you were losing it.

You were just tired--tired of working with no results, tired of lying, tired of thinking. Tired of everything.

“Reid,” you interrupted him with an apologetic smile, your voice lowering so no one would overhear, “can I come over tonight?”

His mouth opened slightly in surprise, but slowly, he responded, “Sure…”

“If you had plans, don’t wor--”

“No, no, I didn’t. That’s fine.”

“Great.” You stood up as you spied Hotch exiting his office and walking to the meeting room. There was no case today, but he waved his hand towards the rest of you to indicate that you should all follow. You picked up the mug that Spencer had put on your desk. “We can grab dinner on the way over. And thank you for the tea. I appreciate it.”

He didn’t move, so you squeezed his shoulder affectionately before trailing after Hotch.

***

Ordinarily, you’d be lost in the moment, focusing on nothing but the feel of Spencer’s hands roving across your body or his breath fanning against your skin. You’d be giving everything for him to use as he saw fit, and the manic roar from the back of your mind would be drowned out by the sounds of sighs and moans and skin against skin contact.

But your brain wouldn’t stop turning as you thought back to every piece of evidence, every case that you’d spent days scouring through for clues and connection, every person you’d spoken to or read about that could have known anything. If Boucher was giving you one last chance, you needed the next lead to be rock solid. Just something. You had to have missed _something_ , or misinterpreted _something_ , or misfiled _some_ \--

Spencer lifted his head from between your thighs. 

You snapped back to reality and looked down at him. “What’s wrong?”

“I think that’s what I should be asking you.”

“What? No, you’re doing great.”

He huffed a laugh as he pushed himself up to a seated position. “Thank you, but, uh…” He reached a hand up to scratch the back of his head, and he avoided your gaze. “It’s just… never taken you longer than six minutes and forty-three seconds to finish when I’m doing that. It’s been ten minutes and seven seconds.” At your furrowed brows (because, though you should have suspected as such, the knowledge that Spencer kept track of how long it took you to cum was… jarring, to say the least), he quickly added, “ _Not_ that it’s a problem. I’m more than happy to keep going. But you just, uh, I guess… don’t seem like you’re enjoying yourself.”

You sat up. “I’m… sorry…” How else could you respond?

He pressed his lips together into a fine-line. “Please don’t apologize. Is everything…” His sentence trailed off even as his eyes flickered to your bandaged hand now resting on his bed. 

He’d offered you a glimpse into his demons the previous night; it seemed only fair for you to give him insight into some of your own. Perhaps it was time for a bit of honesty. 

So you sighed and drew your knees up to your chest, feeling more vulnerable than you would have were you clothed. “I’m just… having a really rough day, Reid. Or year. Honestly, it’s been pretty hard for a while. And some of it is just catching up to me now, you know?”

Spencer nodded. “I understand. Do you want to talk about it?”

What else could you say without exposing the operation?

You shook your head and tucked a piece of loose hair behind your ear. “No, not really.”

“Okay, is there anything I can do to help you?” While the implications of his words lingered between you, there was no pressure or expectation. You looked back up at him, deep in his eyes, and found nothing but an earnest passion to alleviate some of your stressors. Your chest ached in response. What did you do to deserve a friend like Spencer?

“No, I don’t think so. I’m sorry for wasting your night.”

Reid chuckled, “Y/N, an evening spent with you is never wasted, regardless of the activity. I like spending time with you for more reasons than just your sexual prowess, you know.”

You couldn’t stop the laugh that bubbled from your throat or the heat from rising to your cheeks, even as you cringed at his words. “Well, in that case, I would love to just hang out with my friend again. Without the benefits, if that’s okay with you.”

Spencer just smiled. “That sounds great.”

So the two of you got dressed and settled onto the couch. You asked him about himself, about his mother, but he seemed just as hesitant to delineate the extent of his struggles with that just as you were unable to articulate all that was occupying your mind. Instead, you ended up talking about your favorite composers and discovered a shared love for Philip Glass. (You shouldn’t have been as pleasantly surprised as you were; who _doesn’t_ love Philip Glass?) Within minutes, you were watching your favorite documentary about the minimalist composer on your laptop. 

You watched as Spencer hung onto every word of the documentary, both of you curled up on his couch under a large blanket. Somehow, between the small quips and comments you would make as the film delved into the different aspects of Glass’s life and career, you ended up with your knees pressed together. And then your thighs touched, and the upper part of your arm brushed against his. Eventually, the voices filtering over to you from the documentary fell into the background as you found yourself unable to look away from Spencer.

His eyes were glued to your laptop, flickering to the bottom where the subtitles were, and then back up to the video. His lips were barely parted, moving ever so slightly as he occasionally mouthed something to himself. He was so focused on the screen that he didn’t notice you staring.

And then, before you could stop yourself, your head tilted to rest on his shoulder. That was perhaps the only thing that could have broken the spell over Spencer. You kept your eyes ahead even as the muscles in his arm jumped and his head moved in your direction in surprise. Then he relaxed, sinking back farther into the couch, before resting his cheek on the top of your head.

You knew it wasn’t smart, that this was walking the line you had toed in the sand between you two, but you were too burnt out to care.

One night. You could let yourself have one night of indulgence, of comfort.

Just one night before everything turned to shit again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is super unedited (I mean... all my chapters are lol) so I apologize! I hope it was alright anyway :)


	9. I Measure Every Grief I Meet

Your vision was full of flashing lights, of raining ash, of searing flames. You were coughing, smoke infecting your lungs, and when you looked down at yourself, you found a layer of soot and ash coating your body. You felt lighter than normal, like you were watching yourself from above. You were holding something soft.

Morgan had his arm wrapped around your torso, practically hauling you out of the doomed building. But you resisted. Struggled. Fought.

“I need to get them,” you rasped. Then louder: “ _I need to get them out!_ ”

Morgan’s other arm clamped down on you. “It’s _too late_ ,” he shouted back. “ _We need to go_!”

You didn’t know when you crossed the threshold of the front door, or when you stopped clawing to get back into the building. But eventually, you ended up sitting on the back edge of an ambulance down the street, an oxygen mask to your face. Back by the burning home, with flames licking the sky, there were four firetrucks and dozens of firemen scrambling to put out the inferno and evacuate the rest of the street.

An EMT had to hold the mask to your face. You couldn’t get your arms to listen; they were too busy trembling around the object in your lap. You didn’t want to breathe. You didn’t deserve to. But your body wouldn’t listen to your loathing and selfishly gulped down the oxygen from which it had been deprived as the EMT murmured soothing words. It was only then that you realized what you carried: a brown teddy bear with a purple bowtie. An ear had been burnt off, leaving nothing but a black tinge in its wake, and it was coated in ash.

Bile rose in your throat.

“A minute longer, and you could’ve been caught in there too,” the EMT said softly. She was younger than you. New to the job, clearly. 

_I should’ve stayed_ , you wanted to say. _I should have tried harder. I could have tried harder._

But instead, all that left your mouth was a quiet whine. You couldn’t even cry. All you could do was sit and stare at the flames and clutch the teddy bear to your body.

You heard Hotch’s voice before your eyes registered him: “Y/L/N? How are you?”

You didn’t respond.

The EMT said, “She’s in shock. Hasn’t said anything.”

You wanted to punch her lights out.

Then, softer, Hotch said, “Y/L/N?”

You continued to stare.

In your peripheral vision, you saw Spencer running over. Hotch stopped him from getting closer with a raised hand, but his eyes never left your frame. You felt so small sitting in that ambulance. It felt familiar.

For a brief moment, Hotch’s dark eyes and black hair morphed into icy blue eyes and sandy brown hair. Instead of soot blanketing your skin, it was blood--not yours, though. Someone else’s. It covered every inch of you, saturating your hair, dripping into your eyes, soaking you down to your bones.

You squinted at the man standing in front of you. 

Sandy brown hair. Blue eyes.

You blinked and the features reverted to their original colors, away from that familiar face. The sticky feel of blood returned to the gritty texture of ash.

Hotch. That was Hotch. Aaron Hotchner, your boss.

Yes, that’s right. 

You were on a case. A serial arsonist was locking families in their homes in a wealthy neighborhood and setting off IEDs in the house, either blowing them to pieces or leaving them to burn alive.

When you had finally caught him, he laughed and said nothing but a surname. You knew then that you had missed something.

The house was already burning when you got there with Morgan, one side of the house blown out from the initial explosion. The rest of the team was still racing over from their leads. You both made the choice to go in to try and find the family, but the parents weren’t responsive when you called their names. 

But their daughter, a five-year-old girl named Candace, was screaming somewhere else in the house. The teddy bear was lying in the living room along with a box of legos. She must have been playing out here before smoke clouded the room.

You and Morgan yelled for her to tell you where she was. You had picked up the bear and were saying that it was looking for her, that she needed to come and find him _now_. But when you and Morgan could no longer see each other through the haze, when your lungs burned and your mind fogged over from the lack of oxygen, he made the decision to retreat.

The house was just so big, and so old, filled with narrow hallways and servants’ quarters and so many deadends. And when Candace stopped screaming, there was no feasible way for you to find her, anymore.

But you could have at least tried harder. You should have died trying.

Now, Morgan was by another ambulance breathing from an oxygen mask just like you. He seemed shaken up from what you could tell, but faring better than you were.

And just when you felt yourself come back into your body, you heard a wail pierce the night air.

The older sister. Callie. Sixteen-years-old. She’d been studying over at a friend’s house. Now she was fighting police officers at the barricade, tears streaming down her face as she begged for her family.

When you were canvassing the neighborhood earlier in the investigation, you had interviewed Callie. She was remarkably bright and incredibly poised for her age, and she was on track to graduate high school a year early. When you asked her about her plans for after high school, she lit up, eagerly delving into her passion for neuroscience and biomedical engineering and telling you about her dream to get her PhD in neurobiology.

You wondered if she could still have those aspirations after that night.

Probably not.

You weren’t sure when you brushed off the EMT and started moving towards her, teddy bear in hand. When she saw you, recognition flashing in her eyes, she pushed off the officer holding her back and strode over to you. 

“Agent Y/L/N,” she sobbed, “Agent Y/L/N, please tell me they’re okay. Please. Please.” She whispered her pleas like a prayer, as if a higher being could intervene right then and there and bring her family back.

You just handed her the teddy bear and whispered through the lump in your throat, “I’m so sorry.”

The world faded from Callie’s eyes, all the light waning into a dark oblivion. She went silent as she took the bear from your hands, and then, an agonizing shriek lifted from her chest as she crumpled to the concrete beneath her. She clutched the bear close to her, burying her face in the top of its sooty head.

You could feel the eyes of everyone in the BAU on you, but you didn’t care. You bent down and opened your arms to Callie, and while she looked conflicted at first between accepting what little comfort you could provide and screaming at you for your incompetence, she ended up launching herself into your arms. You weren’t her family. You didn’t know them, and you hardly knew her.

But you knew grief. You knew pain. You knew fear. You knew enough to not tell her that she would be okay, that her family was in a better place now, that everything happens for a reason. 

None of it was true, anyway.

Callie would never recover from this.

Instead, you just held the teenage girl who had just lost everything tightly in your arms, struggling to keep the emotion off of your own face.

“I should have been there,” she sobbed. “ _I should have been there_. I could have helped them. I cou--I could ha--I--”

You shushed her, and she fell back into incoherencies, screaming in your arms.

And then you stayed with her until her aunt from a few towns over came to get her. Callie didn’t look back at you as she walked away. You suspected that when the initial emotions faded away, when the inevitable blade of rage sliced through her, she would blame you. Hate you for not doing enough.

And then she would hate _herself_ for not being there. It was not a curse you would wish on anyone.

Everyone was silent on the plane ride back to Quantico. Reid tried to catch your eye from where he sat, but you kept your gaze fixed out the window, or more accurately, your reflection. You had done a shitty job at washing the soot from your face; it still lingered around your temple and in the corners of your nose.

You locked eyes with yourself, and your mind drifted.

_I like a look of agony,_

_Because I know it’s true;_

_Men do not sham convulsion,_

_Nor simulate a throe._

Dickinson was seldom wrong, you thought, least of all about despair.

In your line of work, you had learned many things, but none more than the fact that while happiness was easy to fake, agony was impossible to imitate.

Agony. Sorrow. Pain. Grief. All of them were raw, untouched, and always surprising. Fake agony and authentic agony were easily distinguishable. And there, on your face, was not the neutral, placid expression you tried to wear when you felt the grip of despair on your heart, but rather, anguish, in all its natural glory.

When you touched back down in Quantico, Hotch pulled you aside in his office to check in with you. He asked if you were alright, if you felt okay, if you needed a day off just to make sure your body had recovered from the smoke. You nodded numbly, a vacant smile on your face as you said you would be fine after a night’s rest.

He looked unconvinced. You didn’t try to convince him.

After exiting his office, you found Reid waiting by your desk. He had your coat wrapped in his arms, your bag slung over his shoulder in addition to his own, and a tight smile on his face as you approached. It was the unspoken agreement, now, that after every case, you would head to Spencer’s with him.

Suddenly, your body went live. The exhaustion dissipated, the anguish faded, and what was left was desperation. Fear. Loneliness. It was a dangerous combination, and you were glad that you hadn’t driven to work the morning you left for the case and had taken the metro instead; driving while you felt like you might jump out of your own body seemed unwise.

So you and Spencer hopped on the metro to his house. Neither of you tried to speak; you were certain that if you did, you would end up screaming in public instead.

But when you arrived at his apartment, and he sighed and slowly began taking off his outer layers, your body began moving on its own. 

You grabbed his upper arm and spun him around. He stumbled over his own feet for a second, eyes wide as you tugged the lapels of his coat and brought his lips to yours. Spencer hesitated initially out of shock, but he quickly recovered and met you with the same fervor.

Your arms twined around his neck, and you arched your back into him. His hands flew to your hips, pulling your lower body flush against him as he backed you up against the wall. You hiked a leg up. His hands rounded to your ass and lifted you, pinning you to the wall with his hips.

He pulled away from your lips to trail kisses down your jaw, to your neck, to your collarbone peeking out from the top of your collared shirt and unbuttoned coat, and back up. He ground himself into you just hard enough to elicit a needy whine from you.

But it wasn’t enough.

Your mind was still dark, your body still trembling with the need to _go, go, go_ and do _something_. You didn’t want to be able to think, anymore. You wanted him, any and everything he could give you. You wanted to be lost for an evening without feeling the weight of what this case had dug up for you on your shoulders. You wanted to forget.

All you ever wanted was to forget.

So you pulled him even closer to you, kissing him desperately as if you could dissolve in him. You nipped at his bottom lip, drawing a quiet groan, and he pushed himself off the wall. His fingers dug into your thighs, squeezing possessively, as he backed away from the wall and headed towards his bedroom.

But you needed more than possessive.

“Reid,” you breathed between kisses, “I need you to do something.”

He made it to the couch before he responded. Your ass balanced on the back of the couch, your legs still wrapped tightly around his hips. You could feel the bulge in his crotch, and you jerked him forward with your legs to grind yourself against it.

Spencer fell forward, his arms caging you in as he braced himself on the sofa back. His head drooped into the crook of your shoulder, a groan tumbling from his lips. He took the opportunity to nip at the junction between your neck and your shoulder, whispering, “Anything,” against your skin.

Your head tilted back to expose more of your neck to him. He began trailing kisses back up your neck, to your jaw, and then back down, all while he continued grinding himself against where you wanted him most. You swallowed. 

“I need you,” you ground out, your voice tight, “to make it all go away. Make me forget.”

“Tell me how, and I’ll do it,” he murmured back. He made his way back up your jaw, cutting across your cheek and leaving soft kisses in his wake. When he arrived at your lips, he kissed you gently as one of his hands slid up your torso to cradle your jaw. He pressed his forehead against yours, but as he swiped his thumb against your lips just before you were about to speak, he also smeared the single tear that had run down your face across your skin.

He pulled back immediately.

You squeezed your eyes shut and swallowed again, the lump in your throat bobbing as you forced down the torrent of emotion threatening to erupt from your body.

“Hey,” he said softly. He raised his other hand to your face, gently nudging your jaw for you to look up at him. “What’s wrong?”

Something bent within you at the sound of it. It wasn’t fair to him; he wanted a friend he could fuck, not your baggage, but _fuck,_ you were _done_ with being asked that.

What _wasn’t_ wrong?

When was the last time something was right?

You took a shaky breath, refusing to open your eyes. “Everything,” you whispered.

“Is it about the case?”

Yes.

No.

You groaned in frustration. “Reid, please, I just need…”

“What? Just tell me what.”

Finally, your eyes fluttered open. Your eyelashes were damp with the tears you forced back. You took one of his wrists in your hand, removing it from your face and guiding it to your neck. “I need you to leave marks that won’t go away and fuck me until I break.”

To be immersed in him. To think there was nothing else in the world besides you and Spencer. To feel pain that didn’t leave unseen scars but was just a vehicle for pleasure. 

That was what you needed.

Spencer’s hand flexed against your throat, and you watched as his eyes widened at your request. Your eyes closed, and you could feel his fingers close tighter around you, squeezing gently, and then…

“No.”

You opened your eyes again. “Why.” It wasn’t a question, but a demand.

“I’m not going to hurt you, Y/N. Not like… not when you’re like this.”

“What, there’s a line here, now?”

“It’s not like that, Y/N, and you know it.”

A bitter scoff rose from your throat. “Fine. Let’s just keep going then.” You reached out to pull him back towards you, but he leaned his torso back. Your legs were still wrapped around his hips.

“ _Wait_ , Y/N--”

Your hands went to undo his belt buckle, the thing within you bending even farther, painful as it reached its breaking point.

Spencer grabbed your wrists in his hands roughly and yanked them together. He clasped your wrists between both his hands tightly enough that you’d have to yank hard to get them back. “ _Stop, Y/N_.”

So you stilled, leaning your head back to the ceiling with your eyes closed.

“Please,” he said, “just--tell me where this is coming from. _Please_ talk to me.”

 _Snap_.

You ripped your hands from his and dropped your legs, all but shoving him away from you as you slid off the back of his couch and stalked to the other side of the room by his desk. You leaned forward and braced your hands against the wood, your breath coming out in shallow spurts. Tears pricked your eyes again. Your chest caved in on itself. The room suddenly felt devoid of oxygen.

 _No_ . You were _not_ about to lose it in Spencer’s apartment.

You felt a hand on your shoulder, and though you knew he didn’t deserve it, it didn’t stop the white hot rage from taking over your body. 

You swiped his hand off and yelled, “For _fuck’s sake_ \-- _stop_!”

He yanked his hand back, eyes wide at your outburst. “Y/N--”

“I don’t understand how you shoving me around and _tying me to your fucking bed_ is fine, but now we’re suddenly crossing a line.”

“When you’re _crying_ , yes, it’s crossing a line.” His tone was firm and unwavering but also pleading. He furrowed his brows. “Y/N, I understand why you think you need me to…” His eyes dipped to your neck, his right hand flexing. “You want to relinquish control in a controlled environment. I _get that_. Studies in peer-reviewed journals about sexual health have found that, on average, sexually submissive wome--”

“What? What fucking generic, psych 101 fact are you going to spit at me? That I have daddy issues? Give me a fucking break, _Freud_ ,” you cut him off with a scoff, crossing your arms tight to your chest. “If you knew a _god-damned thing_ about me, you’d--”

“You won’t _tell me_ anything about you!” Spencer cried. He ran a hand down his face as he continued, “You won’t tell any of us! You think we don’t notice how you avoid every question about yourself? How you’ve never _once_ called any of us by our first names, like you’re protecting yourself by feigning some imaginary level of formality? If you gave me _something_ , maybe I wouldn’t have to resort to ‘psych 101’ to try and figure out how to _help you_!”

Your heart was pounding, the blood roaring in your ears just as loudly as your sense of self-preservation was begging you to walk away from the argument. But you couldn’t. Your feet wouldn’t move. The ugly beast that festered in your mind was rearing its head and taking charge of you, and Spencer just happened to be in its path of carnage.

“ _Help me_ ?” you spat. “Don’t act like you’re doing me a fucking favor, Reid, when you need it just as badly. Why don’t we talk about that, huh? Why _does_ the brilliant Dr. Spencer Reid _love_ putting girls on their knees and making them beg?”

His face went red. You knew that you struck a nerve, that he was on some level ashamed of his inclination towards domination, as small as it is, but you couldn’t stop the words from tumbling out of your mouth.

“Is it the power?” you continued, walking up to him so that you stood toe-to-toe. “Is it the feeling of _finally_ being in control that does it for you?” You lifted your hands and placed them on his upper arms. The muscles there jumped underneath his shirt, but even as his body went rigid, he didn’t step away from you as you slid your hands down until they rested on his hips. “I can name _ten_ different surfaces in this apartment alone on which you’ve held me down and fucked me until I was screaming. So don’t pretend like this is _all_ me,” you hissed.

He finally took a step back and ground out, “That’s not what I was saying, and you know it. I don’t want to argue with you, Y/N. This isn’t healthy.”

“Like _you’re_ the spokesperson for ‘health.’”

“You’re not one to talk, either. Your coping mechanisms range from degrading sex to alcoholism to isolation. Maybe we should talk about what _that_ means.”

A fire burned in your cheeks. “Shut the fuck up, Reid. You have _no idea_ what you’re talking about.”

He closed his eyes, putting his head in his hand and huffing out a breath. “Okay, I don’t know what you want from me, Y/N. _This--_ ” He waved a finger on his free hand between you two “only works if we’re communicating, and right now, you’re not giving me _anything_.”

You were fed up with him. The rational side of your brain screamed at you to stop, to apologize, to acknowledge that you were taking out all of your deepest angers on him. But that beast charged ahead, and the words came out before you could stop them. “Stop pretending like you’re some expert in healthy sexual relationships. You couldn’t even get laid until you were a fucking _drug addict_.”

The second you finished the sentence, you regretted saying it. 

Reid went still.

The room went silent.

And when Reid finally lifted his head out of his palm, and when you saw the shock on his face morph into pain, the beast fizzled into nothing again.

You didn’t mean it. You’d never try to weaponize someone’s trauma against them. Only a monster would do that.

When had you become one?

“Reid,” you whispered, “I--”

Without saying anything, he strode across his living room and opened the front door. “I think you should leave.”

You tried again. “Reid--”

“No. I’d like you to leave. _Now_.” 

His tone left no room for negotiation, and when you gathered the courage to look him in the eye, you found nothing but torment.

_I like a look of agony,_

_Because I know it’s true;_

So you picked up your bag and walked over the threshold of his door. You hadn’t even taken a step away before he shut it.

In a movie, the door probably would have slammed shut. You would have run away, tears streaming down your face with guilt, and convinced yourself that you had ruined your life. But instead, the door quietly clicked shut, and the noise reverberated in your skull as you slowly walked down the stairs.

Then you hailed a cab for yourself, went home, and completed your nightly routine before sitting cross-legged on your bed.

And it was then and only then that you allowed yourself to pick up your phone and call Spencer. When he didn’t pick up, you left a voicemail and said, in a voice so shaky it was hardly intelligible, “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

You hung up, set your alarm for the morning, and turned the lights off in your room to go to bed. 

That night, your dreams were filled with fire and ash and smoke, and standing in the middle of the flames, you saw a child. She couldn't have been more than ten-years-old, with her hair pulled back into a delicate bun and an expensive red poofy dress hanging around her knees. When she spotted you, she broke out into a grin, waving and motioning for you to follow her as she dashed farther into the flames.

You didn't run after her. You just stared in her wake as an older version of that child walked up beside you.

The two of you stood in silence until the older girl said, " _I wish I was still her._ "

You turned towards her. The older girl was barely recognizable, but it wasn't age that distinguished her from the young girl in the red dress, but rather it was the hollow eyes that no longer contained a world of dreams that stared back at you. Something had broken in her--something that could never be repaired.

_Men do not sham convulsion,_

_Nor simulate a throe._

So you replied, "Me too."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi so for the purposes of my fic, Spencer just had like casual sex w people when he was addicted to dilaudid. That's not a canon thing that's just something I made up. I mentioned it super briefly in previous chapters but I just wanted to put this reminder here!
> 
> I wrote this instead of writing a paper that I needed to take an extension on, so that's where my priorities are! anyway this is also not edited but I'll be going back eventually to fix any mistakes lol


	10. I Felt a Funeral, in my Brain

You and Spencer hardly spoke to each other for the next week and only when it was necessary for the next case. The animosity didn’t get in the way of your work, but the rest of the BAU felt the tension transferring between you both all the same.

It wasn’t anything specific. He never acted petty or angry towards you just as you didn’t yield unnecessarily to him out of guilt. It was more in your stilted conversation, the uncharacteristic lack of flow between your ideas when composing the profile together, the awkward formalities that had made their way back into your speech.

You wanted to apologize for what you said and how you acted, but this sort of confrontation had never come easy to you. How would you even bring it up, especially when he seemed content to brush it aside and never address it again?

You could tell he was still hurt, though, over the fact that you used something he told you in confidence against him. You couldn’t blame him. How  _ could _ you?

The only time another member brought it up to you was when you went to go on a coffee run and asked Spencer if he wanted anything. He had strode past you and offered nothing more than a brisk “I’ll get it myself.”

When you returned with your comfort drink (a hot mocha with hazelnut syrup--disgustingly sweet but worth it for the nostalgia), you found the office in the police precinct in which you’d set up shop empty save for Prentiss, who occupied one of the chairs surrounding the long table in the center of the room. 

She waved you over to sit in the chair across from her. “Hey, what’s going on between you and Spencer?” she asked as you sat. You could tell she wasn’t asking out of nosiness, but concern.

“We got into an argument. Don’t worry about it.” What else could you say?

Her brow furrowed as she huffed a laugh. “I don’t mean to pry, but I feel like it’s kind of hard to get into an argument with Reid, especially one that lasts this long.”

Ordinarily, you would have assured her that it would resolve itself, that you were both adults and could handle conflict, but you were beaten down between Reid and the emotional turmoil that the time of year brought around. The holiday season was always rough for you.

So instead of bottling it up, you stole a glance to the doorway, spied Spencer and the rest of the team speaking with officers in the bullpen, and turned back to Prentiss with a sigh. “It’s my fault. I was… in a bad place, and I took it out on him. I don’t really know how to apologize.”

“Well, are you sorry?”

“Of course I’m sorry.”

“Do you get what you did wrong?”

The conversation felt like a Kindergartener’s Guide to Conflict Resolution. It irritated you, even if you recognized what Prentiss was doing. “Well, yeah, but--”

Emily cut you off. “There isn’t a ‘but,’ Y/N. Your heart’s in the right place, now. Just be honest with him and explain where you were coming from. Bad days are part of the job description; he’ll understand if you just tell him why.”

But you  _ couldn’t _ explain it to him, not in its entirety. Not in the way that he deserved. Explaining to anyone why  _ that _ case drudged up so much shit for you, why it exposed a raw nerve in you, meant digging into things you’d been trying to bury for years. “It’s not that easy.”

“Yeah, it is. Trust me on that one.”

And that was the end of the conversation. Prentiss stood as Hotch entered the room calling both of your names. Garcia had gotten a hit, and you were going after the unsub.

The take down was easy, and within hours, you were all on the plane flying back to Quantico. 

You sat by yourself in the corner, thinking over what Emily had said to you, when your phone buzzed on the seat beside you. You turned it over and checked the screen, your breath hitching in your throat as you saw a schedule reminder.

It was December third.

The Christmas music blaring in every store should have cued you in enough that November had passed, but you were so wrapped up in everything--from the operation to all of the shit with Reid--that you hadn’t even noticed. Your mouth went dry as you stared at the note that came with the yearly reminder: 

“ _ For them _ .”

Usually, you didn’t pay much mind to the passing of December. You tended to bury yourself in piles and piles of work, even going so far as to help out other divisions like ViCAP and Cyber Crime if there wasn’t enough to do in the BAU, until the holiday season ended. Keeping busy, keeping distracted, was the only thing that kept you together. But this year was different. It  _ felt _ different. You felt crushed by the weight of your reality yet simultaneously unburdened by certain aspects of it. You didn’t know what to make of it.

Maybe it was finally time.

You waited until you returned to Quantico. Everyone headed back up to the office to gather the rest of their things before heading home for the evening. Hotch’s office door was open, so you popped your head in.

He was already seated at his desk with folders splayed out in front of him and a pen in his hand. You would have laughed had you been able to. Hotch never wasted any time, did he?

“Y/N,” he said as he looked up.

You gave him a tight-lipped smile. “Hey. I know it’s last minute, but can I take a personal day tomorrow?”

His eyebrow twitched, the only indication of surprise. “Provided that nothing urgent comes up, yes.” He paused. “Is everything alright?”

The unspoken message of his question was clear:  _ you’ve never once taken a day off for personal reasons, vacation, or illness in your entire professional career at the FBI. What could possibly drive you to take one, now? _

Another forced smile. “Yes, everything’s fine. I’ll keep my phone on. Call me if anything comes up.”

Hotch studied you, and you could feel his eyes analyzing every twitch of every muscle in your body, as if it could cue him into whatever you were doing. Eventually, he just said, “Alright,” and dismissed you from his office.

As you walked back into the bullpen, you saw the rest of the team clustered by the glass doors, and when she spotted you, Prentiss called out, “Hey, Y/N, O’Keefe’s?”

“First round’s on me,” Rossi added.

Garcia grinned. “And  _ that _ is why we love you.”

He turned to her. “Just  _ that _ ? And here I was thinking my charm and good wit was what kept me around.”

Despite yourself, you couldn’t help the small smile that lifted to your lips as you collected your things from your desk and headed towards them. “I’m going to have to pass tonight, but thanks for the invite.”

“Oh,  _ c’mon _ , Y/N! Are you ghosting us this year already?” Garcia whined.

You blinked at her statement, swallowing your irritation.

It was fine. She didn’t know better.

“I’m busy during the holidays. Everyone is,” you answered, digging into your bag for your phone. 

Garcia opened her mouth to respond, but instead, cut herself off with a quiet gasp. You followed her gaze to find Preston leaning against the wall beside the elevators. He was all packed up, and given the time, had definitely stayed later than usual, presumably to wait for your return. He gave you a tired smile as he looked up from his phone and saw the group heading towards him.

“It’s sexy-agent-friend,” Garcia gasped quietly.

You saw both Derek and Spencer look at Garcia, then at Preston, then back at you. You ignored them, even as Derek echoed “Sexy… agent friend?” under his breath to Spencer. Derek’s words didn’t seem to register with Spencer; you could feel Spencer’s eyes boring into you as you stared ahead at Preston.

Preston pushed off the wall and out of the way of the BAU, motioning for you to break off from the group towards him.

Well. There was no getting out of that.

In a hushed tone, you asked, “What are you doing here?” as you approached him.

“Well, hello to you, too, sweetheart. My day was fantastic. I appreciate you asking.”

In the background, you heard Garcia whisper-shriek, “ _ Sweetheart?! _ ”

Why was it taking the elevator so god-damned long to get to the floor? 

You sighed heavily, flexing your right hand as you restrained it from running it down your face. “I’m really not in the mood, Pres. Do you need something, or can I go home?”

Preston’s eyes flickered from you to the group behind you, and then down to your right hand. 

Right. Last time you saw him, your hand was still wrapped up. All that remained of your embarrassing outburst were angry pink marks and a few lingering scabs. You curled your wrist up, hiding your hand in the arm of your coat.

When his eyes settled on your face again, they softened as his voice shifted to a murmur quiet enough that the rest of them wouldn’t be able to overhear. “It’ll be fifteen years tomorrow, sweetheart. I know you normally don’t make a fuss about it, but that’s hard on anyone. I didn’t want you to be alone tonight.”

You just stared up at him, your gut twisting and your throat closing up.

“I already got a metric fuckton of food delivered to your place,  _ and _ it’s paid for. You can’t say no.” He paused. “I mean, you can, obviously, but you know what I mean.”

Special Agent Christopher Preston: a modern day poet.

You sighed through your nose. You wanted to say no. You didn’t want to be with anyone--not tonight, and certainly not tomorrow. But you couldn’t bring yourself to do it, not when Preston looked at you, worried.

That was all anyone seemed to be anymore when they were around you. Worried.

Maybe for good reason.

Afraid that your voice would come out shaky, you nodded in resignation. Being alone tonight had the potential to be dangerous, especially if you allowed yourself to think too much about the next day. Preston knew you well enough to also know that. He was just looking out for you, just like he always did.

Preston let out a breath. “Okay, good, because it really is a  _ lot _ of food. I went with a whole Italian-comfort-food kind of thing, and I got out of hand  _ real _ quick,” he said as he began walking towards the elevator, which had  _ just _ arrived.

You looked back up at the BAU group, found them all staring at you, and wondered how uncomfortable the elevator ride would be.

The answer: very.

The doors had barely shut, with all of you crammed into the tiny space, before Garcia turned her head towards Preston. “Special Agent Christopher Preston, we meet again,” she said.

Preston snorted. “Please, just Preston is fine.”

“Ah. Last name only, even amongst peers, huh?  _ Very _ FBI of you.” When Preston chuckled again, Garcia craned her head around and tried to catch your eye. You kept your gaze down to the ground. 

In his 14th century divine comedy, Dante Alighieri wrote about his journey through nine circles of hell. You knew then that he had missed one.  _ This _ was the  _ tenth _ circle of hell.

When the elevator doors opened, you mumbled a quick “bye” to the group before Garcia could drag you to a corner of the lobby and ask about your evening plans. You could feel Spencer’s gaze still on you as you departed and sped walk across the parking lot, Preston trailing close behind, to your car. You dared a look behind your shoulder and saw him standing in front of the lobby doors, staring in your direction, until JJ called his name. Then, he scurried after the rest of them, but not before you locked eyes.

He looked sad.

The sight tugged at something deep in your chest. You hated this tension between you; even more, you hated the fact that it was entirely your fault. After tomorrow, you’d find a way to properly apologize. The voicemail you had left that he almost certainly hadn’t listened to wasn’t nearly enough.

The drive home was uneventful. Preston kept trying different avenues of conversation, but you weren’t in the mood to talk about the weekly drama in ViCAP (of which there was truly a bizarre amount), or the new Greek restaurant that opened up near the academy, or how much he idolized Rossi and struggled to “play it cool” while in the elevator with him.

Truthfully, you’d been avoiding him since the meeting with Boucher. It had been a while since the two of you really talked about anything not immediately related to the case, and even after that meeting, conversation about that was slow to come. You suspected that he didn’t want to be the one to choose what could be the last lead. You weren’t jumping to get something to Boucher, either.

When you finally got home and walked into the lobby of your apartment, Thomas looked up from the doorman’s desk. “Y/N, you got, uh, quite a lot of food deliveries today. I took them up to your apartment for you,” he said.

You stole a glance at Preston, who gave you a sheepish grin. “Thank you, Thomas.”

“My pleasure. Have a great night.”

And when you walked into your apartment, your jaw all but dropped. “Preston, what the  _ fuck _ ?”

There were boxes and bags all across the island and counters in the open kitchen to your left and all over your dining room table in the main room, each sporting a different restaurant name and logo. Your apartment smelled like a fucking Olive Garden.

“Look,  _ I told you _ I got out of hand.”

“ _ Yeah _ , but…  _ why _ ?” you asked as you tossed your bag and coat onto one of the living room chairs. “God, how much do I even owe you?”

Preston shrugged while shedding his outer layers. He began sorting through the various with you deliveries, grouping them by type of food. All the pizza boxes were stacked in the kitchen. The dining table was seemingly all salads and antipasto dishes. He said, “I don’t want you to pay me anything, Y/N. You forget to take care of yourself around this time of year. I just wanted to make sure you didn’t have to cook for a bit. You could freeze a bunch of this and just heat it up when you’re hungry. Should last you a while.”

When you stopped moving and stared at him, he kept his eyes on the food. You knew he noticed you.

He wasn’t telling you everything.

“Pres,” you said, “what are you really doing here?”

His hands stilled. With a heavy sigh, he braced his hands against the edge of your dining table. “I think we need to talk about what Boucher said about the operation.”

“Oh, and all of  _ this _ is just a way to sweeten the conversation?”

He looked up at you. “ _ No _ , I meant what I said. You’re shit at taking care of yourself. I swear to God; every December, you stop eating and sleeping and you drive yourself into the fuckin’ ground. It’s terrifying to watch, Y/N.” Then, he paused, pulling a chair out and sitting. “And… just… with what Boucher said to us, I was worried you’d be worse this year.”

“I’m fine, Pres.”

“Maybe for now, but I think we need to start being realistic, sweetheart,” he said quietly.

You clenched your jaw. “What are you saying? You think it’s done?”

“I didn’t say that, but--”

“Would you have stopped, Preston, if you were in my position? If you had the chance?” you cut him off.

He flinched at what you said, his nose twitching as he took a sharp inhale. There was a reason you and Preston had become so close so quickly when you met at the academy. Like calls to like--broken attracts broken.

“I got my justice by helping other people get theirs. That’s enough for me,” he replied, his voice low. “At one point, it was enough for you, too.”

“Well, it isn’t anymore.” 

Preston opened his mouth to respond, but you cut him off quickly. “I’m going home tomorrow.”

You could tell he wanted to press on, to talk about what he came here to discuss, to “be realistic,” but as soon as the words tumbled from your mouth, he went still--slack-jawed. The words surprised you, too, and though you had planned on it, saying it out loud to someone who knew what it meant to you carried so much more weight. Suddenly, your plans tomorrow became real. Unavoidable.

He was silent for a few beats before he asked, “Are you ready for it?”

“No, but I think it’s time.” And though anxiety rolled your stomach over, though your body felt taut with fear, your words were true.

After fifteen years, it was finally time to face them.

You just hoped you would return unscathed.

So Preston nodded, clearly still holding his tongue, and stood up to walk to the kitchen. You stayed where you were, listening to the clink of glasses and the  _ pop _ of a wine bottle being uncorked. He returned with a bottle of _Veuve Clicquot_ that you’d had in your wine fridge and two champagne flutes balanced on top of a pizza box. Ordinarily, you would have been pissed that he opened your nicer champagne without asking, but you knew what he was doing.

He poured you both glasses wordlessly, handing you one before holding his glass up to you.

“To fifteen years, sweetheart,” he said quietly, his voice sad.

The lump in your throat made a reappearance, and it bobbed as you swallowed thickly. “To fifteen years,” you echoed. You clinked your glass against his and then took a long drink, wishing it was strong enough to stave off the pain the next day would bring.

***

It was a six hour drive. You left Virginia just as the light began peaking over the horizon and arrived well past midday.

You hadn’t been here since you were eighteen-years-old.

Here, where the dead and living converged into one, where the mourning of passing and the celebration of life intertwined, where the sound of decades of tears snaked through the air like fog rolling in from a harbor. 

Here, where long ago, a piece of you, too, died--a piece that was now forever buried beside three other souls.

You drifted through the space as if ferried by Charon himself, the sodden grass beneath your boots acting as your very own River Styx. You felt removed from your body, a ghost trapped for eternity, forced to watch herself operate from the outside.

It was fitting to feel like the dead when you were a visitor in their own home, you thought.

Then a brisk wind ran by, bringing you back to yourself, and you felt the sharp twinge of the early frost bite your cheeks. It was colder than you remembered it to be. A shiver wracked your spine, and you buried your face deeper into the scarf around your neck as you walked up a slight hill. You made sure not to step on anyone else’s loved ones when you crossed through aisles, glancing periodically at the crudely drawn map in your hands. The groundskeeper had sketched it out for you with a Sharpie when you asked him where to go.

How embarrassing was it that you couldn’t even remember where your family was?

Overhead, the call of thunder rumbled in the distance, and dense grey clouds obscured the sun. A slight drizzle that held the promise of a storm misted around you. You felt the weather was appropriate, much unlike the sunny day fifteen years ago. Back then, you had hardly registered the funeral proceedings, let alone the weather.

Now, you made sure to take in everything. To never miss anything ever again.

The rows stretched out before you, peppered with grey tombstones engraved with names forgotten with time. What a privilege it was to descend into obscurity because of time instead of mandate. Each step you took brought you closer to the names that had been purposefully erased—their good deeds left forgotten, their mission forever incomplete.

And then you arrived.

You crumpled the paper in your fist and shoved your hands into your pocket to mitigate their trembling, staring at the three tombstones that seemed to stare back. You didn’t speak for some time, partly because you had yet to gather the words appropriate for your return from your self-imposed exile, and partly because the sight of them closed your throat entirely.

Then, after taking several deep breaths, you were able to say, “Hi, Mom. Dad. Lizzy.”

Mother, Father, Sister. Each with a matching death date. 

Even after all these years, you couldn’t shake the feeling that yours should have matched, too. That it was a crime for you to still breathe when  _ their _ final breaths were wasted on unheard pleas for mercy.

You shook the images from your mind. You weren’t here to remind them of all they had endured. You were here to remind them that  _ one _ person, at least, had not yet forgotten them—that one person, at least, would  _ never _ forget them, even if you had tried so desperately for so many years to erase them from your memory, as well.

You took a trembling breath. “I, um… I’m back. Just for today. I’m sorry that I’ve been away for so long. You didn’t deserve that.” Another shaky breath. “It’s been fifteen years since I last saw you all.” A bitter laugh. “Sometimes, it feels like it’s been, like, a week, you know? I still… I still see everything when I close my eyes.” You turned your gaze down to the grass under your feet, to the water droplets making their home on the arch of your boots. You shook your head. “But I don’t want to talk about that, now. I just came back to tell you where I’ve been, what I’m doing. I think you guys would be really proud of some of it. I hope, at least.”

And so you dove into it all—how the rest of your schooling went, how your career took off, how you deviated from the path they wanted so desperately for you to follow. You told them about Preston, because you’d always had trouble making friends in your youth, and because you wanted them to know that you had someone there to look out for you. You told them about how you drifted apart from the Marseilles, even though Victor reached out to you at least once a year to try and reconnect, and you told them about how you hadn’t spoken to Victor or either of his two sons, Alexander and Leo, in years.

Then you paused. Your heart still ached when you talked about Alexander after all these years. You wanted to explain to them everything that had happened between you two, why after the five year anniversary of their murder you realized you were truly incapable of loving someone, but you didn’t have the heart nor the courage to explain to them why. Not yet.

Instead, you explained why you left behind everything you’d been working for your entire life. Why you abandoned everything they had left  _ you _ .

“I  _ did _ accomplish everything I promised you I would when… when I graduated. All my research is published.” A small smile rose to your lips, even as tears began to finally well in your eyes, that lump in your throat growing to obscure your voice. “You guys would’ve loved my research until the end. Then it got… then it got really hard for me to keep doing it, you know?” Your bottom lip quivered, and you stopped trying to repress the torrent of emotion cracking your chest open. 

Here, you could cry. Here, you could allow yourself to feel everything that you tried so hard to ignore in your day-to-day life. Here, you could finally be vulnerable again, just for a bit.

So, as you continued to speak, you began to openly weep, as well. “So I’m an agent, now. A Supervisory Special Agent. I know you didn’t want me to go into the FBI, Mom and Dad,” you choked out. “I know you thought I was too smart for that, but I’m really not. That’s what this all showed me. I’m not smart at all. I’m sorry if I disappointed you. I like to think you guys would still be proud of me, anyway. I really,  _ really _ hope you would be. I jus—I couldn’t—it was—“ A bout of sobs stole your ability to speak as you succumbed to your grief. It took you a few moments before you were able to continue, barely intelligible through the thickness of your sorrow: “I couldn’t sit and study cognitive models and… and fucking program  _ pointless _ neural networks when I could’ve been saving people like you guys, you know?”

And as another sob was wrenched from your throat, you managed a small laugh. “But you would’ve loved my team. Especially, you, Lizzy,” you said, turning your head to your younger sister’s grave. Elizabeth, named after your mother’s favorite literary heroine, was only two years your junior. She would’ve been thirty-one this year. “One of my coworkers reminds me so much of you. Her name is Penelope. She’s always finding the good in everything, and her desk is covered in unicorns and pink and sparkles. God, you guys would’ve been best friends.” You raised a hand to wipe your face, even as new tears spilled over onto your cheeks. The rain had picked up, too—no longer a drizzle, but a steady pour. “They’re all so good to me. They  _ do so much _ good in the world. And I’m… I’m not that great to them back. It’s really hard for me to—to let myself love them. I know I  _ do _ , but it just feels like there’s this hole deep inside me that’ll never heal, like I’ll never be able to let them in as much as they deserve, like they’ll fall into that dark hole with me.” Another trembling breath. You continued in a sharp whisper, “Sometimes, I think I might be evil. I know I’m not, but sometimes I just say the most awful things to try and keep them away. My friend Spencer… I was really awful to him. And he was just trying to help me, you know? Sometimes I think I’m beyond help, or that I don’t deserve it. Everything just hurts, and it hurts worse and worse every day that you guys are gone.”

Your despair echoed through the cemetery, and in the moment, you couldn’t bring yourself to care about if anyone was around to hear you. You sunk to your knees in front of the graves. The freezing mud seeped into your jeans, but you paid no mind. How could anything physical even  _ begin _ to detract from the agony in your heart?

Any filter that you might have had was gone now. Words tumbled from your lips like a landslide. “I want you guys to know, though, that I’m trying really hard to find whoever did this to you. But it’s hard. It’s  _ so, so fucking _ hard. And I’m not smart enough for it, and I just feel so  _ alone _ , because no one thinks I’ll find him. Not really. Not even Preston. He’ll never say it, but I know what he’s thinking. I’m working with Samuel, too. He’s the director of the whole fucking FBI, now. Can you believe it? But he’s ready to end the operation if nothing else turns up. And I’ve been failing all of you for so long that I don’t know what’ll happen if he ends it. He should care more. He should  _ want this more _ ,” you sobbed. 

It was true, after all. Samuel should have  _ jumped _ when you came to him demanding that your family’s case be reopened. Perhaps you were too aggressive, too insensitive in your approach. Samuel  _ did _ lead the investigation when he still worked in the field, and you remembered how distraught he was when he consistently came up with nothing. Samuel and your parents had been close friends for years before you were born. He was the one who introduced them to the Marseille family and invited them to join the Monet Society. He was such a big part of your life, of  _ their _ lives, and yet, seemed content in the lack of justice for your family, all because of the politics of his position.

Your parents had been a part of their own confidential operation, or so you learned years after their death. Its failure and their murder, along with the death of many civilians like your sister, reflected poorly on the FBI. So the higher ups at the time closed it quietly and erased all that your parents had done in that operation from their databases. Now, it seemed like Samuel was content to have it remain that way.

But you weren’t. You would never be.

You made your way up to your mother’s tombstone, still on your knees, and leaned your forehead against it. The knees and shins of your pants were soaked through, now, and the cold water assailing you from all sides drew shivers from your body. What you wouldn’t  _ give _ to feel your parents’ arms around you once more, keeping you warm and protected. What you wouldn’t give to have your mother read to you like she did in your childhood. What you wouldn’t give to tell them you loved them one last time.

To tell  _ someone _ you loved them and for it to not feel cheapened by that bottomless hole within you. For it to not feel like a lie.

“I’m so scared, Mom,” you confessed to her. “I’m sorry I tried to forget you all for so long, but I’m trying really hard to remember it all now so I can finally get the monster who did this to you. But I just don’t know where to go anymore, and I’m just so,  _ so _ scared. I’ve been so scared for so long that I’ve forgotten what it feels like to really hope for something better. I’m sorry about that.”

And in the back of your mind, you heard your mother’s gentle, soothing voice: “ _ The world does not stop moving just because you’re afraid _ ,” she had once said to you in your youth, “ _ but do you know what helps you move along with it? Hope. Hope is what keeps us all going, so never lose sight of that, or else the world will leave you behind. _ ”

“I think the world left me behind when you died,” you whimpered, “but I’m trying to catch up. I’m  _ going _ to, because I refuse to see you again until I get him. I swear to  _ God _ that I’ll get him.”

Then, as if you could still crawl onto her lap like a child would, you turned and sat down, pressing your back against her tombstone. You leaned your head back and let the rain wash away the tears, as if it could also wash away fifteen years of unspeakable agony. But you welcomed the feel of the frigid rain as it ran down your neck, like tiny daggers cutting across your skin, and sapped the warmth from beneath your coat, because that minuscule pain just meant you were alive. Even if you didn’t deserve to be, even if you should have gone with the rest of them, even if you went to bed every night wishing that you would fall into that eternal sleep instead, you were alive. Bitterly, unfortunately, and painfully alive.

“I’m going to get him,” you whispered, another sob lifting from your throat. “I  _ will _ . I promise… I promise… I promise…” 

It was a vow for justice that you weren’t certain would ever come. But though you had spent years in a hopeless fog, desperate to manage your expectations so as to not suffer any more heartbreak, you decided then that for them, you could hope. It was a small kernel nestled deep within you, one that you would only unveil during the most difficult of times, but one that would remind you of why you kept going.

For them. Always for them. 

To live  _ for them _ even when all you wanted was to join them.

You stayed with your family until the groundskeeper made his rounds and told you the cemetery was closing. He must have thought you were crazy--covered in mud, completely soaked from the rain, and your face swollen and pink from crying for so long--but you couldn’t bring yourself to really care. It wasn’t as if you would be back anytime soon, anyway.

You slowly descended the hill, feeling a breeze carrying frigid water droplets from the nearby ocean kiss your face. While the pain in your heart had increased tenfold, something had also been lifted in you. Perhaps it was the fact that you were finally able to face your family again that left you feeling a bit lighter than when you arrived.

You returned to your car and let out a heavy sigh as you sunk into the seats, putting your key in the ignition and driving from the cemetery out on Long Island back down to Virginia. As you passed back through Manhattan on your way, you wondered if you’d ever be able to walk down the overpopulated streets again and not feel so entirely alone. If you’d ever be able to call it “home” again.

Probably not.

And when you returned to your current home and stripped yourself of your clothes (still damp even after the  _ six hour drive _ ) you felt a chill that not even a scalding hot shower could warm away. You checked the time as you bundled yourself in bed with your warmest pair of sweatpants, sweatshirt, and blankets with another sigh. You had to be up in three hours.

Everything going on in your life loomed over your head, taunting you. You still had to find a rock-solid lead to present to Boucher, the thought of which plagued most of your mind, but you also had to find a way to properly apologize to Reid.

With a heavy heart, you shut your eyes and drifted off.

You dreamt of nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi sorry this is a lot of plot and is super wordy, but I hope it was still okay! Thank you for reading :)


	11. Would the Eden be an Eden?

You hadn’t been at work in three days, and Spencer was freaking out.

The first day you were gone hadn’t been cause for concern. Hotch had begun the briefing meeting that day by telling the team that you had taken a personal day. When Morgan made a quip about how “Miss Perfect Attendance” had “finally missed a day of school,” Hotch had shot him a disapproving glare.

“We’ll catch her up to speed tomorrow,” he’d said.

And that was that--on to the case. No further explanation.

There had been a series of murdered bodega owners in DC, but even as Garcia began delineating the details of the case, Spencer still couldn’t keep his mind focused on anything but you. Truthfully, he’d had trouble keeping his head straight ever since your outburst in his apartment. Spencer prided himself on his intellect, on his ability to talk his way out of any situation, and on his seamless psychoanalytic skills.

But he could not for the life of him figure out what the hell was eating away at you. And that, in turn, ate away at him, in part due to his slightly damaged pride, but mostly due to the fact that he couldn’t stand to see you upset. Obviously, the arson case had struck something sensitive, but he didn’t know enough about you or your background to even begin piecing together what it was and why. And if he wasn’t smart enough to figure that out, if he wasn’t smart enough to help the people he cared about, then what was the point of being a genius?

And then, to top it all off, he’d  _ kicked you out _ when you were in a vulnerable state. It hadn’t been for nothing (you  _ had _ crossed a line you shouldn’t have, and he felt entitled to be upset by your words), but he had gotten so caught up in his own hurt feelings that he hadn’t realized the implications of his actions until after he’d closed the door.

And when he saw you the next day, he hadn’t really known what to say. That was a first for him. He’d wanted to address it after the last case, but you were gone before he could get a moment alone with you, whisked away from him by “Special Agent Christopher Preston.”

Spencer was immediately off put by the ViCAP agent. He wasn’t so dense that he didn’t know how his own jealousy biased his opinion of someone who was likely a fine person (and he  _ was _ self-aware enough to recognize that his ill-feelings stemmed from jealousy). What he couldn’t understand, though, was  _ why _ he felt that cancerous seed growing in his gut when he saw you two interacting. 

Spencer had decided that ruminating over it was pointless, mainly because he didn’t enjoy the knowledge that he was not, in fact, your closest friend like he’d been led to think--that there was someone who was above him in your hierarchy of interpersonal relations. But then he thought about the probability of Preston knowing more about you than he did, of having that  _ privilege _ of being closer to you than anyone else, which also meant that Preston likely knew why you were so distraught over that case.

And Spencer  _ really _ didn’t like  _ that _ .

He had resolved after the first day that, the following day when you returned, he would talk to you about that night in his apartment.

But then you didn’t show up again.

When he arrived at the police precinct the following morning and noted your absence, he’d asked Hotch where you were. All he received as an answer was a monotonous “she’s out.”

_ She’s out _ .

There was no way you were just “out.” You hadn’t missed a day of work for the entirety of the two years he’d known you, and he could only recall a  _ single _ instance of you being late due to being rear-ended by a high school student while you were driving to work. Something  _ had  _ to have been wrong with you.

He was going to press Hotch about it, but he’d gotten swept up in the case immediately, running around DC as per Hotch’s instructions with no time to try and figure out what had happened to you. 

Now, it was the third morning with no sign of you, and Spencer was ready to jump out of his skin with anxiety. It didn’t matter that he was standing in the middle of a crime scene; he couldn’t think about anything but you, even as Derek and JJ began profiling the scene. 

Then he heard JJ repeating his name.

He snapped back to reality. “Sorry, what?”

“Uh,” JJ began, breathing a laugh as she cocked her head to the side, “is everything alright, Spence?”

“Yes, why wouldn’t it be?”

She paused, her mouth half open. “You, uh, you just look a little distracted. That’s all.”

He offered her a tight-lipped smile and nothing more. JJ looked like she might press for more information, but then looked past him, beyond his shoulder. Her brows furrowed. “Y/N’s back,” she said.

Spencer couldn’t have turned around faster if he tried. JJ was right; there you were, deep in conversation with Hotch, as if you’d never been gone at all. But then he looked closer and noticed your slumped shoulders, squinted eyes behind thick sunglasses, and the arms that you hugged close to your body, as if you were trying (and failing) to stay warm. It wasn’t terribly cold out, and you looked like you were dressed in layers, more so than the rest of the team at least. 

Then it dawned on Spencer that you might be sick.

But you  _ never _ got sick.

JJ said something about going to speak to the newly widowed wife of the latest victim, but he hardly registered her words as his legs began moving towards you of their own accord. As soon as he was within ear shot, both you and Hotch quieted your voices and turned towards him.

“Reid, is everything alright?” Hotch asked.

He ignored him, and to you, said, “You’re back.”

Upclose, he could see cracked dry lips and pink irritated skin around your nose. He was sure that if you took your sunglasses off, he would find your eyes to be unfocused and decorated with dark circles.

But even with the sunglasses on, he also saw the way you avoided his gaze, how instead of looking at him, you turned your eyes down to the ground before focusing back on Hotch.

“I want to work the case,” you insisted.

And your voice--raw and quiet and thick with phlegm. Ordinarily, Spencer would have taken a step back at the sound of it; the  _ last thing _ he wanted was to catch whatever you had, but he found himself having to restrain himself from getting closer to you, instead. He wanted to wrap his arms around you and hold you close, keeping you warm and protected, or tend to your every need until you felt better. He didn’t know how to alleviate whatever emotional turmoil you had been experiencing, but he sure as hell knew every method, across every major culture, to mitigate the symptoms of any common virus.  _ And _ he could rank them from most to least effective based on his own medicinal knowledge.

Then he paused.

There was a dead body lying thirty feet away from him, and all he was thinking about was how to nurse you back to health rather than catching the literal serial killer roaming DC.

What the hell?

He was jolted back to reality by Hotch’s voice: “And I’m telling you to go home. You’re useless like this.” At your pained expression, he added in a softer tone, “I need everyone completely focused on the case,” and shot a pointed glance at Reid. “I don’t want you back until you’re feeling completely better. Go home. Take the rest of the week if you need it.”

Spencer could tell you wanted to keep fighting.  _ Everyone _ on the team noticed how you got around the holiday season--how you created work for yourself if there was none, how you stayed after hours filing reports and picking up tasks from other divisions, how you tended to isolate yourself from the team more so than usual. The fact that you were unable to bury yourself in work for these few days was clearly more distressing to you than whatever you had come down with.

He suspected that Hotch realized this as well, and that was the reason he was so adamant about you resting.

From inside the bodega, Derek called Spencer and Hotch’s names. With one last glance at you, Hotch said, “Go home, Y/N,” before turning on his heel and walking back onto the crime scene.

That just left you and Spencer.

You pressed your lips together. “Hey, Reid.”

“Hey. Are you alright?”

You tried to laugh, but the tail end turned into a cough. “I’ve been better.”

A silence settled between you. Awkward, stilted conversation, just like it had been since that night in his apartment. He opened his mouth to respond but was cut off by Morgan calling his name again.

He looked back at Derek, holding up one finger and receiving an eye-roll in response, before turning back to you. “I, uh--”

“Yeah, yeah, go solve the case. I’ll see you later, then,” you cut him off. With a nod of your head, you began walking away towards your car parked down the street. He couldn’t help but note the bitterness of your tone.

It took everything in him to stop himself from running after you  _ just _ to ask if he could talk to you later. He really didn’t care about what you’d said to him anymore; he just wanted to make sure you were okay.

But he tore his gaze from your retreating figure and forced himself to walk back into the bodega. He just had to focus on the case for now. When it was over,  _ then _ he could let himself resume his ruminating.

Fortunately for Spencer, they ended up solving the case that night. The bodega owner had been bludgeoned to death from inside the store, his time of death being estimated at around 7am that morning, which, according to his wife, was when he opened the shop. There were no signs of forced entry, so when asked if anyone besides the owner had keys to the bodega, the wife mentioned a painter from a month ago.

“We couldn’t be in there while he was painting, so we gave him a copy. He gave it back to us afterwards, though,” she had explained through her tears. 

When they looked back at photos from the previous crime scenes (all with the same MO), they noticed newly painted walls in each of them. With that, it was only a matter of hours before they tracked down their unsub.

Spencer was packing his things up by his desk, readying to go home for the evening and continuing to find his thoughts drifting to you. He wondered what you were doing, if you were taking care of yourself, if you felt any better from that morning. By the way you looked, Spencer would assume the answer to both inquiries was no.

He found himself striding down the hallway to Garcia’s office, where he knocked on the door and received a boisterous, “ _ ALL YE WHO ENTER HERE SHALL PERISH! _ ”

Spencer took that as an invitation to enter.

“Hey, Garcia, I know you’re on your way out, but could you search something for me really quick?” he asked. His hands folded around the strap of his messenger bag, heat rising to his cheeks. This was normal, wasn’t it? He wasn’t being creepy.

“You’ve come to the right place, my brilliant baby Einstein. What do you need?” She wheeled her chair back to her main monitor as she spoke.

He cleared his throat. “I, uh, I just need you to look up Y/N’s address for me.”

Garcia froze, slowly turning in her chair to face him again. “ _ Whyyyyy _ ?” she drew out.

“She’s sick. I wanted to drop the case files from today so she’d be up to date with everything.” It was a half-truth. Yes, he had an extra case folder tucked in his bag for you, but he needed to make sure for himself that you were doing alright. He recognized the clear invasion of privacy, especially given that you seemed adamant to  _ never _ let anyone come over, but he was doing you a favor; you wouldn’t get  _ mad _ at him, right?

Garcia blew out a breath and turned back to her screens. “Alrighty, then. I’ll just pull up her file and read off--” She cut herself off, leaning forward and squinting at her screen as if she were double checking something. “Oh, that’s weird.”

“What?”

“No, sorry, nothing. I have her current address here, but… just… there’s, like, nothing else in here.”

That gave Spencer pause. “What do you mean?”

Garcia began typing as she answered, “Usually, there’s a lot more information: your test scores from the academy, educational background, all former places of residence, and  _ every _ background check imaginable, just to name a couple. I mean, seriously, none of you have any secrets. But all she has in here is… just stuff from after she joined the FB-- _ oh _ . Oh my god.”

“ _ What _ ?” Spencer’s patience was running thin. He wasn’t here to snoop (even if he found himself interested in your minimalist file, too); he was here just to get your address.

She looked back at Spencer, then back at her screen, typed a few more things, and then finally craned her neck around to face him. “She has a sealed file. Why is there a sealed file? Oh my god. What if it’s bad? Do I open it?  _ No _ , it’s sealed for a reason. I can’t… but--”

“Garcia, address. Please.” He’d had enough of your mystery to last him a lifetime. If he had to  _ also _ think about the implications of you not only having nothing in your regular file, but  _ also _ having a  _ sealed file _ on top of that, he would get a migraine. That was an issue for another time.

“ _ Right. _ Right. Sorry. I will just do the  _ responsible _ thing and  _ not _ unseal the file.”

Spencer decided to ignore the obvious lie. He wrote down the address she rattled off to him on a post-it note before folding it neatly into his pocket. You lived about a thirty minute ride on the metro away from him in an extremely nice part of the area.

On his way there, he stopped by the Korean restaurant you two had gone to all those weeks ago and ordered the spiciest kimchi  _ jjigae _ on the menu. He didn’t know much about your personal life, but he  _ did _ know that you enjoyed this dish. Spencer thought it was fitting;  _ jjigae _ was a hearty stew of various meats and both fresh and pickled vegetables. And the spice would help clear your stuffy nose.

It was only when he arrived at your apartment building that he paused. What if you  _ did _ get angry at him for prying?

He shook his head. He was just here to deliver the case files and some food to you. That was it. That was what  _ any _ good friend would do for another.

So he marched into the lobby of your apartment building, his stride only faltering for half a second as he took in the sprawling marble floor, and the pillars that were clearly for decoration only. (No structurally sound building would have support beams in  _ those _ places.) He shouldn’t have been as caught off-guard as he was; your zip code  _ was _ in a notoriously wealthier part of the area, but even if you made a solid living working for the FBI, this seemed out of the price range for the average agent.

Curiouser and curiouser. 

Then he noted the sign by the elevators:  _ Guests must check in with the doorman on duty _ .

His converse squeaked against the polished floor as he headed towards the doorman’s desk.

The doorman, who had previously been sorting through mail and inserting them into the mailboxes behind him, turned to face Spencer. “Hi, how can I help you?”

“Hi--” Spencer glanced down at his nametag “--Thomas. I’m here for Y/N Y/L/N. Apartment 15F.” At least, according to the address in your file, you lived in 15F. He wasn’t quite sure what to believe about you.

A smile graced Thomas’s face. “Ah, she’s just the sweetest, isn’t she?”

What?

Not to say that you weren’t a pleasant person to be around; Spencer would argue that you were wonderful company, regardless of whether or not you were sleeping together. He had better conversations with you than… well, anyone. Not to mention that you were also brilliant, in and out of the field, and were perhaps one of the funniest people he’d met. You were great; he just wouldn’t have used the word “sweet” as an adjective to describe you.

Before Spencer could question  _ that _ statement, Thomas continued, “What’s your name, son?”

“Uh, Reid. Spencer Reid.”

Thomas typed a few things into the desktop in front of him. After a few moments had passed, he sucked in a breath. “No, sorry, you’re not on the list.”

“I’m… sorry--the  _ what _ ?”

“Some of the folks who live here have an approved guest list of people allowed up. It’s mostly ‘cause they’re too busy for us to call up to them every time there’s a guest asking around for them. She’s only got three names on hers. Spencer Reid isn’t one of them. Sorry, son.”

“I-- _ okay _ .” This was… not ideal for him. He just added  _ that _ to  _ his own _ list of things he didn’t understand about you and cast aside his curiosity about which three people  _ were _ on your “approved guest list.”

Spencer gave himself exactly two seconds to change his mind and consider the ethics of his actions before digging into his bag and pulling out his badge to show Thomas. “I’m actually Supervisory Special Agent Dr. Spencer Reid with the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit in Quantico. I’m here to deliver confidential files to Supervisory Special Agent Y/N Y/L/N, so it is actually extremely imperative that you let me up.”

Thomas remained silent as he stared at Spencer. Then he let out a heavy sigh, like he was annoyed by Spencer’s presence. “Fine. Let me call up and ask.”

Not the reaction he anticipated, but one he would take nonetheless. 

Spencer waited as Thomas dialed a number into the desk telephone. His breath hitched in his throat when he heard your muffled “ _ Hi, Thomas. _ ” from over the phone.

“Hi, Y/N. I’m so sorry to call, but there’s an Agent Spencer Reid here for you. Says he’s got ‘confidential files’ to deliver. Normally, I’d send him away, but--”

“ _ No worries. You can send him up. Thank you so much, Thomas _ .”

“Will do. Have a lovely evening.” Thomas hung up the phone and sat back in his chair. “You’re good to go. She’s in apartment 15F, like you said.”

Spencer nodded his thanks before striding to the elevators. It was a short trip up, and when he arrived at your front door, he found himself smoothing his hair out of his face and trying to unruffle his clothes.

Then he rang the doorbell and waited.

***

You were nestled in bed,  _ just _ starting to feel the effects of the probably dangerous combination of Benadryl and Nyquill you’d taken, when your landline phone rang. Hearing that Spencer was in your lobby was one of the  _ last _ things that you anticipated, especially given the fact that he’d both never been here and also wouldn’t know your address unless someone looked it up for him. Your bet was on Garcia.

If it were  _ anyone else _ , you would have told Thomas to kick them out, but with guilt still gnawing at your chest, you didn’t have it in you to turn him away. So, now, you were answering the door while semi-high off of the sedative effect of cold medicine. You usually abhorred sleep aids or sedatives; you’d found that the deeper your sleep, the more likely you were to be dragged into an all-too-realistic nightmare, but you were  _ exhausted _ . And if you wanted to get back to work as soon as you could, you realized that you’d need to have a decent night’s sleep to even try to feel better.

You had to unlock all three of the locks on your door and slide the top chain out of place before opening it, squinting through the harsh hallway lights as they contrasted with the dark apartment behind you. “Hey.”

Spencer scanned your figure, as if looking for something wrong. At any other point, you might have been self-conscious of your attire--an old purple NYU crewneck and a pair of black sweatpants--but between your ailment and the fact that the only person seeing you like this had also seen you naked, you couldn’t have cared less. 

When his eyes settled onto yours again, he said nothing, instead opting to silently dive into his bag and procure a file. “It’s the case file for the bodega murders,” he blurted out.

You blinked, slowly looking down at the folder in his outstretched hand and then back up at him. Your world was blurring at the edges as your eyelids began growing heavier. “You… came here just for that?”

Spencer raised his other hand to draw your attention to the brown paper bag. “I also brought you kimchi  _ jjigae _ . You know, in addition to being delicious, it’s widely heralded in Korea for its restorative properties and ability to alleviate symptoms of the common cold given the excess of ginger and spicy kimchi utilized in the recipe. I wasn’t quite sure what you were sick with, but just based on the symptoms you displayed this morning, this seemed like the best option,” he rambled.

A blush was spreading across his cheeks, and you couldn’t help but soften at the sight of him. Here he was, standing in front of your door, being  _ more than _ nice to you even after what you’d said to him, embarrassed. And you probably weren’t helping; you didn’t look the most inviting, with your body propped in between the doorframe and the door, blocking any line of vision into your abode.

Preston was the only one who’d ever been here. He was the only one you ever  _ let _ get this close. Maybe it was the relaxing effect from the sedatives or the fact that he’d come this far out just to check up on you, but you couldn’t just take what he’d brought for you and send him packing.

So you sighed through your nose, your body nestling into the oversized clothes you wore, and you opened your door wider. “I’m going to pass out in about fifteen minutes, but do you want to come in?”

His eyes widened. “Y/N, if you’re experiencing fainting spells, you need to go to the hospital. Your brain isn’t getting enough oxy--”

“ _ No _ , I just took--” Your eyelids drooped for a moment, and you shook your head, taking a deep breath “--a  _ lot _ of cold medicine.” You held the door open for him, waiting for him to cross over the threshold. “Are you coming in, or what?”

He pressed his lips together in a tight smile before finally entering your apartment. Even through the fog growing across your mind, you could pick up on him analyzing every detail of your home. His eyes lingered on the dining table (still piled high with food that you hadn’t gotten around to packing up) and then the kitchen, and then scanned across the walls as if instinctually looking for personal embellishments. It felt like he was searching for something, as if he’d find an answer hidden away in your tiny corner of the world.

You doubted he would.

Then his gaze settled on you again, dipping down to the NYU logo on your crewneck with a slight notch between his brows, and then back up to your face. “You went to NYU?” he asked.

“Nope.” 

He opened his mouth, that notch growing deeper, and then decided against pursuing that avenue of conversation. Instead, he nodded his head in the direction of your living room, or more specifically, at the Steinway and Sons upright piano sitting between the two windows on the far wall. “But you play the piano?”

You suddenly wished you lived in an apartment with a less open floor plan, or at least one that didn’t showcase most of the apartment from the entryway.

So you sighed, “When I was a kid, yeah.” And before he could question you any further about your decor or life, you waved your hand in the direction of the kitchen. “Thank you for the  _ jjigae _ . You can just put it on the counter.” You watched as he did as told, and when your world blurred again, you blinked hard to keep your vision straight. 

When he walked back over, after spending several moments turning around in your kitchen to scan the entire area, he looked you over again. “How are you feeling?” he asked.

Quite frankly--like your muscles were melting into your bones. Everything felt heavy, like the air itself was pushing you into the ground, and you hadn’t a care in the world aside from getting under your covers and letting yourself sink into your mattress. You opened your mouth to say as much, but all that came out was a wheezy laugh.

“Uh, what did you take and how much?”

“Just, like… I think… one too many Benadryls.”

He started. “Wait, how many is ‘one too many’? You know that diphenhydramine is a main ingredient in Benadryl and that it can be highly addictive, right?”

“I was just… trying to make myself… fall asleep.” Words were becoming difficult, especially when your mind was split between keeping yourself standing and articulating semi-coherent thoughts. You laughed again, “I was  _ not _ expecting company.”

Spencer blew out a breath. “Okay,” he said, pointing down the hallway to where your bedroom door was open. “Why don’t you get into bed, and I can…” He trailed off and stole a glance to the clutter of pizza boxes and take-out containers and bags. “I can help you clean up a little before I go.” 

You wanted to protest. The last thing you wanted was being a burden to the people in your life. But your tongue felt heavy, and when Spencer’s hand cupped your shoulder, turning you around and gently nudging you down the hall, you couldn’t help but lean into his touch as you went. You hadn’t realized how much you missed his presence until the urge to wrap your arms around him almost took over your body. But instead, when the two of you crossed the threshold into your bedroom, and your feet shuffled into the plush carpeting on the floor, you just sighed, flopping onto your bed and slowly maneuvering yourself under the covers.

Spencer gingerly sat on the edge of your bed. “Can I get you anything before you go to sleep?” he asked softly. 

As you peered up at Spencer, who gazed down at you with no resentment nor harbored anger, you felt something long abandoned in your chest suddenly come back to life. Fear, loneliness, and anger stopped plaguing you for a moment, and in its wake, an ancient warmth began to radiate through your body. And this is, you realized, is what Spencer Reid did; he brightened even the darkest moments simply by being himself--by caring so deeply for every person in his life, even those who did not deserve it.

Spencer was a lone candle trying to illuminate the tenebrific room of your life, and you had tried to snuff it out for fear of what the light would reveal to you. And  _ that _ made you worse than whatever monsters lived in that darkness.

It made you want to cry.

Instead, you shook your head. Spencer gave you a slight smile and nodded, standing up to leave. You weren’t sure what took hold of you, but before he could get too far, you reached out and tugged on his hand.

He jumped as if your touch shocked him.

“Reid,” you breathed, your hand falling back onto the covers. “I--thank you. For bringing the case and the food and for… checking on me.”

Another soft smile. “Of course.”

“And,” you continued before he could leave, “I’m sorry. I’m really,  _ really _ sorry for what I said to you. It… I…” Your mind was working at barely an eighth of its usual speed, but even if you were at full capability, you were certain that you would struggle to find the words nonetheless. You groaned, frustrated at your lack of ability to articulate yourself, and perhaps it was because of the medication lowering your guard or the leftover emotional exhaustion from your trip home, but you were surprised to find your eyelashes damp from tears welling in your eyes. You blinked them back. “I’m just sorry, Reid,” you whispered.

Spencer sat back down on the edge of your bed, cupping the side of your face with his hand. “It’s okay,” he murmured.

“ _ No _ , it’s no--”

He cut you off. “Let’s talk about it when you’re feeling better.” His tone left little room for negotiation--not that you were in a position to argue  _ anything _ .

So you sighed, settling back against the headboard of your bed, nodding. “Okay,” you said quietly. “But really--thank you. You’re a good friend, Spencer.”

He breathed a laugh through his nose, looking down at his lap, and then at your nightstand, where the upturned book caught his eye. “What are you reading?” he asked. He didn’t wait for you to respond and instead plucked it up from the stand. “ _ The Complete Works of Emily Elizabeth Dickinson _ . I can’t say I’m surprised.” Then he turned the book over in his hands and flipped to the page to which you’d had the book opened and read, “Success is counted sweetest by those who ne’er succeed.”

At the sound of his voice, reading to you from one of your most prized possessions, you couldn’t help the gentle smile that graced your face. You weren’t sure why you said what you did next; were you in the right headspace, you wouldn’t even think to bring it up, but the words tumbled from your lips before you could stop them: “That’s my mom’s favorite poem.”

“Really?” he asked, looking back up at you.

You sunk further down into your bed until your head was nestled in your pillows again. With every passing thought, with every passing moment, your body grew heavier and heavier. Your eyelids fluttered as you continued, “Yeah. That was her book. She used to read it to me before bed.”

His eyebrows raised in appreciation, and the smile on his face grew a little wider. He looked back down at the pages. “And what, uh, what’s your favorite poem?”

You blew out a heavy breath, puffing your cheeks out. It was growing more difficult to keep your eyes open, so you closed them when you answered, a slight smile still tugging at the corners of your lips. “ _ Wild Nights - Wild Nights! _ ”

You anticipated the fact that he would laugh, no doubt familiar with the poem himself. “Really?” he asked, still chuckling, “Why?”

You shrugged as best you could from your position. “Because it means so much more than what everyone thinks does,” you said. Your voice suddenly sounded far away, like an echo calling to you from the back of a cave. Still, you tried to continue, even as that echo began descending into a whisper. “It’s… it’s not about sex at all. Dickinson was a recluse, so… it’s about longing for paradise, for security, for love… it’s about finding joy… it’s…” As you trailed off, your words slurring into each other, you felt Spencer’s hand smoothing hair from your face, even as you drifted further and further from your body.

And then he began to speak. “Wild nights, wild nights,” he read softly, “were I with thee, wild nights should be our luxury…” 

And when you opened your eyes again, your senses weren’t assaulted by the smell of smoke, nor did you feel the sticky weight of blood covering your skin. Instead, you felt a gentle ocean breeze kissing your face, the rocking waves beneath your feet, and the smooth wood of a boat against your legs as you sat. 

Off in the distance, there was an island, so you took the oars on either side of the boat and began to row with the hope that one day, your feet would touch that sandy shore once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I know this chapter was kind of slow, but yay for spencer's perspective! Thank you for reading :)


	12. Remorse is Memory Awake

You were drawn from your slumber by the sun peeking in from your blinds.

Your eyes fluttered open, no longer dragged down by the weight of your exhaustion, and you squinted at the offender with a quiet groan. The haze that had overtaken your mind after returning to Virginia from the cemetery was less prominent, and your body didn’t ache as much as it had. There was a thin sheen of sweat covering your body, but this time, it wasn’t from chills and a fever, but the fact that you were practically _baking_ under your covers.

You forced your eyes open and sat up with a sigh while you glanced at the digital clock on your nightstand.

_12:43pm._

You stared at the time, blinking as if it would change.

 _Twelve fucking_ —

You scrambled out of bed and leapt for your phone, which had been neatly placed on your nightstand and plugged in to charge. There were a few notifications, and though you planned to brush past them all to dial Hotch’s number and explain how you’d somehow slept until _12:43_ , you found that he’d already sent you a text earlier in the morning.

_Aaron Hotchner: Reid let me know that you’ll be out again. Feel better._

Reid did what? How did he—

And then you remembered, heat rising to your face as you recalled the events of the previous night—how Spencer showed up out of nowhere, how you could barely hold a conversation because you were practically high off of _fucking Benadryl_ , how he had tucked you into bed like a god-damned child. You dropped your phone onto your covers and groaned, burying your face into your hands.

When you slid your hands down your face, you took a closer look at your nightstand. There was a glass of water set out, and your poetry book had been neatly closed with a post-it note sticking out of one of the pages. You picked up the book and opened to the marked page.

The book had been marked where you’d left off last night, reading your mom’s favorite poem as a way to self-soothe before you planned on passing out. On the yellow note, Spencer had scrawled a message in his usual chicken scratch:

 _Let me know how you feel when you wake up. I hope it’s better than yesterday_. _-Spencer_

Your eyes softened at the sight of it, and you felt something stir in your chest. You had the thought pretty much every time you were with him, but now more than ever, you wondered what you did to deserve a friend like Spencer. Slowly, you sat back down onto your bed and picked your phone up again, dialing his number.

He picked up on the second ring. “ _This is Dr. Spencer Reid._ ”

You almost laughed at his formal greeting, but instead just said, “Hey, Reid, it’s Y/N.”

“ _Oh!_ ” In the background, you could hear the ambient noise of the BAU bullpen. “ _How are you feeling? Actually, you know what, I wanted to ask you—have you taken your temperature at all, today or yesterday? I should have taken it for you while I was there so I could have made a regimented recovery plan for you when you woke up. If you do it now, I can make one for you within the next half hour. Probably less, actually. How do you feel about—_ ”

“Reid,” you cut him off, a soft smile showing through in your voice. You bit your bottom lip in an attempt to conceal it despite the fact that he wouldn’t see it. “That’s not necessary, but thank you. I feel a lot better than yesterday. I actually, uh—” You breathed a laugh and blamed the warmth in your cheeks on the lingering fever, “—I just woke up. Do you… remember what time I fell asleep?”

“ _You were out cold by 8:14pm. I’m not surprised you slept this long. I found the medication you took on your nightstand and put it back into your medicine cabinet for you. The diphenhydramine in Benadryl combined with the doxylamine succinate in NyQuil would be_ quite _the potent concoction, especially if you don’t have a high tolerance for antihistamines. I strongly advise against taking those together in the future; it has the potential to be extremely dangerous, not to mention, again, highly addictive._ ”

You zoned out during his lecture, instead focusing on the fact that you’d just slept for _sixteen fucking hours_. You averaged five hours of sleep a night— _six_ on a good week. You couldn’t recall a single instance in your entire life when you’d slept this long, especially not without a nightmare to speak of.

Then again, when your night ended with Spencer in some capacity, you tended to sleep better. He was your very own dream catcher.

“Yeah, yeah,” you said absentmindedly, “I’ll try to avoid tranquilizing myself next time I get sick.” Which would likely not happen any time soon. You actually couldn’t remember the last time you fell ill. When you’d woken up the day after returning from the cemetery with a migraine so bad you could hardly open your eyes and shivers wracking your body, you’d spent the entire day curled up under your covers. You’d sent a barely legible text to Hotch explaining you’d be out again. The following day, you’d still felt like garbage, but you could at least keep your eyes open. Being sent home was probably the best thing that could’ve happened given the circumstances. Hotch was right; you would have been useless. Up until you decided to knock yourself out with cold medicine, you’d been sitting in your living room and reading, barely actually digesting any of the content due to how clouded your mind felt.

To be fair, sitting out in the freezing rain, staying in those cold wet clothes for over six hours, and also being completely exhausted—emotionally and physically—was the perfect combination to getting sick, after all. You should have expected as much.

But you never would have expected Spencer coming over, especially not acting the way he did. A part of you almost wanted him to be furious over what you said; it’d make you feel less shitty about how nice he was being to you.

Spencer’s voice jolted you back to reality. “ _Y/N? Are you still there?_ ”

“Yes, sorry, repeat that.”

“ _I just said that you looked dehydrated last night. I left you water on your nightstand. Did you drink anything yet today_?”

“No, but I’ll get on that as soon as possible.”

“ _Okay, great_.”

Silence lingered between you two, and you sighed.

“Hey, thank you again for last night. You really didn’t have to go through the trouble, though; I would have been okay.”

“ _I know, but I wanted to make sure you were okay, physically and_ …” He trailed off and let his pause speak for itself.

You huffed a laugh through your nose. After what he did for you, you could afford some honesty. “I’m better than I was. Marginally. Everything’s still kind of shitty, but that’s just how it always is.”

“ _Okay, well, I’m happy to hear that it’s going at least a little better_.”

Another pause. Another sigh.

“Well, I don’t want to distract you fro—”

“ _Y/N, wait_ ,” he interrupted. “ _Sorry, just… could I come over again tonight?_ ”

You raised your brows. “I don’t think you really want to hook up with me like this. I’m still a little sick.”

He laughed lightly into the phone. “ _No, not for that. I just think we should… talk_.”

You closed your eyes, sighing through your nose. This conversation was inevitable. You knew it needed to happen, but it didn’t make it any less anxiety inducing. And though you never planned on having anyone at the BAU come over, you also realized that at least with Spencer, there was no longer a point to that rule. He’d already come into your space—had likely come up with a hundred different assumptions about your life and background from what he saw in your apartment.

Things never really went according to plan with Spencer.

So you said, “Yeah. Yeah, that’s fine. You can just come over when you’re done for the day.”

“ _Okay, fantastic._ ” In the background, you could hear Morgan calling Reid’s name. “ _Ah, I have to run, but before I go, I left some notes for you about how I organized everything. And the kimchi_ jjigae _is on the bottom shelf of your fridge. I’ll see you tonight_.”

“Yeah, see you tonight, Reid. Bye.”

When you hung up the phone, you downed the glass of water he’d left you before shuffling out of your room. As you passed your office, you lightly tugged on the door handle and blew out a breath when you found that it was still locked. If Reid had done some reorganizing or cleaning while he was here, he likely would have entered the room were it unlocked. Explaining the contents of your office, between the personal memorabilia and confidential documents tacked onto every corner of every wall, would be a nightmare in its own right. You kept the room locked when you weren’t using it out of caution, just in case Thomas came up to drop off a package for you while you were out and got curious. If you were going to let Reid into your home, you would need to be extra careful in making sure the door stayed locked.

You kept walking and entered the main room, freezing at the end of the hallway. All the take out that Preston had left you had been cleaned up, and the books you’d skimmed through the previous day that you’d left scattered around your coffee table and couch were back on the shelves lining one of the walls. You spied a red post-it note stuck to the spines of one of your collections, so you walked up to the shelves, unable to fight the laughter that bubbled up from your chest when you read it.

_Are you sure Faulkner isn’t actually your favorite…? -Spencer_

He’d left the note on one of the two box sets of Faulkner’s works that you owned. Any scholar of western literature worth their two cents was well-versed in all of Faulkner’s works—novels, short stories, and essays alike; he was a great American author for a reason, most notable for his distinct and convoluted stream-of-consciousness writing style. Owning two complete sets of all of his works, however, _did_ seem excessive, and though you were a fan of his works, you wouldn’t have gone out of your way to purchase two collections. Despite your little joke with Spencer, you wouldn’t be surprised if he owned more than one collection, as well.

But the only reason you had them was because one collection—old, worn, and bound with leather—had belonged to your mother, while the other was a gift from Alexander Marseille.

The thought washed the smile from your face, and you swallowed thickly as a swirl of memories breached the surface of your mind.

You shook your head and swiped the note from its place on the spines of _As I Lay Dying_ and _Sanctuary_ , rehoming it in the front flap of your older copy of _Absalom! Absalom!_.

Then, you wandered to your kitchen to find two notes on the door of your fridge, each containing one portion of a shared larger message:

_I found ziplock bags in your cabinet. Pizza is in the freezer. I had to…_

_...throw out most of the salads but anything else that didn’t spoil is in the fridge. -Spencer_

You huffed a laugh at the fact that he’d signed off on all of his messages, as if there would be any confusion on your part as to who wrote them. Then you leaned forward, pressing your forehead against the cool metal of your refrigerator door as you felt your face warm again. You’d thought that the idea of Spencer wandering your home unattended and digging into your intimate corner of the world, cleaning and organizing your things, would have given you severe heart palpitations. But in actuality, you found a dopey smile on your face and a light fluttering in your chest.

You bit the inside of your cheek with another laugh to yourself and began to go about your day as best you could.

You showered for the first time in two days, putting on a pair of leggings and an oversized t-shirt afterwards, before perusing the case file he’d dropped off. Then, finding that you had an actual appetite, you microwaved the _jjigae_ from last night and scarfed it down. By the time you finished, it was only 3pm. You still had hours before Spencer came over. Ordinarily, you’d be isolating yourself in your office, but the idea of sitting for hours on end, parsing through different images of horrifically mutilated bodies or scanning through missing persons reports made your gut twist.

You decided that after the past few days, you could afford to be useless for one more day, even as that nagging voice in the back of your head demanded you seek out a new lead. Rarely could you quiet it, so to ignore it as best you could, you settled on your couch and turned on the television.

God, when was the last time you’d even watched TV?

You weren’t used to being stagnant like this. At this point, burying yourself in work was the only thing you really knew anymore. You derived a twisted sense of comfort from it.

But there you were, scrolling through channels, perfectly content to let yourself atrophy on the couch for a while, like a _normal_ adult would on a sick day. You’d never been classified as “normal” once in your life; it felt strange to try and be so now.

After ten minutes of searching, you finally settled on a rerun of the 1995 _Sense and Sensibility_ movie—one of your favorite movies from childhood.

And you lasted another ten minutes before your brain, no longer incapacitated by overwhelming illness or pain or lingering sedative effects, screamed at you to do something more stimulating. You turned the television off and closed your eyes, leaning your head back against the couch cushions with a sigh.

Sometimes, you felt that your mind was a curse just as much as it was a blessing.

So with a groan, you pulled yourself to your feet and turned around in the room, as if pacing would somehow make the time go faster. As you spun, something blue sticking out on your upright piano caught your eye. You went to investigate.

On top of the piano, you had several binders and books of sheet music held up by bookends. There was a post-it note sticking out of one of the binders.

You blinked. Had Spencer gone through them all while he was here? He’d accepted your vague answer and hadn’t asked anything more about your piano history. You didn’t anticipate he would investigate it for himself. Even further, you didn’t think he would also organize your piano books into alphabetical order.

You plucked the binder in question out of place.

“ _Y/N’s Favorites!_ ” had been written on the cover in Sharpie by a long abandoned version of yourself. You flipped through the pages.

On each new piece, your younger self had written her own notes by the titles explaining why each piece had earned its spot in the binder, along with the date you’d completed learning them. You hadn’t gone through this in years, and the sight tugged at a softer part of your memory, one filled with light and music and laughter. The lump in your throat made a sudden reappearance, bobbing as you swallowed, and you finally flipped to the page Spencer had marked.

He’d left the post-it note on top of the sheet music for Debussy’s “Rêverie,” right beside your own note, where you’d written “Because I think this is what being in love would feel like. And ‘Clair de Lune’ is overrated. ‘Rêverie’ is Debussy at his most fundamental self.”

On the post-it note, Spencer had written: _I agree, but “Clair de Lune” is still Debussy at his finest. -Spencer_

You should have cared that he’d gone through your things without you knowing. But instead of ruminating on that fact, you found yourself focusing on what your teenage self had written—specifically, the first sentence, which Spencer seemed to ignore.

 _Because I think this is what being in love would feel like_.

A soft frown graced your face as you stole a glance back to the newer copies of Faulkner’s works—the ones that had been a gift.

If only your younger, naive, bright-eyed self knew what the world would show her. If only she knew that she’d have the ability to love stolen from her, a dark void lingering in its wake.

You slid the binder back where it belonged, leaving Spencer’s note in there, and instead turned back to your bookshelf. You ended up deciding upon Wally Lamb’s _I Know This Much Is True_. You’d read a few of his other works in the past, but this had been sitting on your shelf for years. You supposed there was no better time than the present to read his most groundbreaking work.

You settled back on your couch with a sigh, cracked open the book, and read until Spencer arrived.

He ended up coming at around 8pm. When Thomas called up to you this time, you just told him to put Spencer on the approved guest list. You figured it wouldn’t be the last time he’d visit you here; might as well just make the process easier for the future.

As you waited for him to arrive from the elevator, you felt that familiar anxious knot in your abdomen grow. And when the doorbell rang, you found yourself smoothing your hair and your clothes and taking a deep breath. You shook your head as if it would clear your mind; since when did you get nervous about seeing Reid?

“Hey,” you greeted when you finally opened the door.

The way his face lit up when he saw you shouldn’t have made you smile the way it did. Then, he hunched over a bit, peering at your face as his eyes scanned every inch. “I’m relieved. You have far more color in your face than yesterday, and you don’t look _nearly_ as dehydrated. That’s a quick recovery if I ever saw one.”

You shrugged, opening the door wider to let him in. “It’s probably the combination of eating, sleeping, and not working for the first time in a few days.” You closed the door behind him, and the two of you settled onto your couch.

For the first time in what felt like forever, conversation between you flowed easily. He filled you in on what you’d missed, and you told him about the book you were already nearly done with, surprised to learn that he himself had yet to read anything by Wally Lamb.

When you teased him about finally having read something he hadn’t, he said, “I’m not as well-versed in _miscellaneous_ modern day fiction. Now, if you want to talk about _great_ contemporary western authors like Morrison, Angelou, or Hemingway, as examples, that’s a different story.”

“Two of his novels were picked for Oprah’s book club. I think _that_ puts Lamb’s work on a higher pedestal than ‘miscellaneous modern day fiction.’”

He snorted, shaking his head and looking down at his lap. “I’m sorry to say that I _don’t_ choose my reading material based on Oprah.”

You laughed and leaned back in your seat. Your legs were folded underneath you, your body turned completely towards Reid.

Then a silence settled between you, and the smile faded from your face. The small talk could only last for so long. That knot in your stomach began to grow again.

He spoke first. “Thanks for having me over again,” he said quietly.

“Well, you kind of already went through my things. There’s not much else for me to hide.” It was a lie, of course, but if he thought he’d gained insight into your background, then you wanted to keep it that way.

A blush rose to his cheeks, like he was still embarrassed for getting caught despite leaving a literal paper trail. “You… you found my notes okay?”

“From the Dickinson book all the way to the piano binder.”

He breathed a laugh and looked down at his hands again. “I, uh, I wanted to ask last night, but you were… a little out of it. You said your mom used to read you Dickinson before bed?”

You felt your heart constrict at his words, nodding slightly while you tried to keep your expression placid. You had a vague recollection of mumbling what you thought was gibberish to him, but now that you thought back on it farther, you remembered how, exactly, you’d fallen asleep: with Reid reading you your favorite poem. The thought made heat rush through your cheeks.

“Yeah,” you answered, your voice tight, “she did.”

“Is… is that why Dickinson is your favorite?”

You shifted in your seat. You knew what he was doing—he was trying to parse through your familial relationships, _if_ they existed, which according to the utter lack of photos in your apartment and your tendency to avoid any topic of conversation relating to family, they did not.

Damn your sick brain for bringing it up.

So you shrugged, tracing a pattern absentmindedly along the soft couch fabric. “In part, I guess. I don’t know. Dickinson can be pretty dark, especially if you’re reading it to a kid, but my… my mom used to say that Dickinson wrote for those who want to experience life in all its facets. She wanted me to understand the world, you know?” You offered a small, sad smile. “And for Dickinson, despair was just as valid as joy—just more commonplace. _That’s_ really why she’s my favorite.”

He was quiet for a few moments before he said, “I’m sorry for your loss.”

You chuckled bitterly. You should have known that he’d figure it out. He probably knew the moment you told him about the poetry book on your nightstand the previous night.

And this was not an avenue of conversation you wanted to pursue with Reid. Not now. Not ever.

In response, you said, “ _I’m_ sorry for what I said to you.”

Thankfully, Spencer seemed to take the change of subject. “Oh, you don’t—”

“No, stop, let me apologize to you,” you cut him off. When he pressed his lips together, you continued, “That case just…” You ran your hands down your face. “It put me in a really awful place. And that’s not an excuse, but I just want you to know that the last thing I’ve ever wanted to do was hurt you, Reid. Really. You’re an amazing friend, and I’m so sorry that I’ve failed to be one back.”

He shook his head. “It’s not even about what you said, really. I just don’t understand why you won’t tell me. All I want is to help you, and it’s hard to do that when I feel like I barely know you.”

He sounded sad. You hated the fact that you caused that.

“Reid, you do enough,” you said. “I mean, really, I don’t…” You sighed, settling back into your seat again. “I don’t really have that many friends. Or people close to me in general, actually. That’s always been… hard for me, I guess. But you are...” You huffed a laugh. “Honestly, Reid, you’re one of the best things in my life right now. I don’t really know where I’d be without you.”

He smiled in response, but still looked unconvinced as he cast his gaze back down towards his lap.

So you sighed again and leaned forward, nudging him in the upper arm. “What if I answer one question.”

“What?”

“Ask any question— _not_ about… that case—and I’ll answer it.”

Spencer raised a brow at you. “Any question at all?”

“I reserve the right to ask for a different question, but yes.”

He seemed to brighten a bit at that, looking up as if pondering, and then scanning the room with his eyes. They lingered on your bookshelf but settled on the piano behind you. “You said you played the piano when you were young. Why’d you stop?”

“ _That’s_ your question?”

He nodded and gestured to the books on top. “You had pieces by _Liszt_ in your repertoire binders, Y/N. That level of skill, at _that_ age… you don’t just stop playing when you’re on the path to virtuosity. Not like _that_.”

You would hardly consider your younger self a virtuoso, but you understood his point. You looked down at your hands and flexed them. It had been years since you ran your fingers across ivory keys. At one point in your life, such a fact would have seemed impossible. But the reason you stopped playing, the _full_ reason, meant delving into things you could hardly stand to think of yourself.

So instead of getting into everything, you just answered, “I played the piano for joy and for praise, and suddenly when I got older, there wasn’t much of either anymore. So I stopped.”

“You didn’t enjoy it?”

“Of course I did, but… it got hard to _enjoy_ playing when I didn’t have a reason to do it anymore.”

He thought about your words for a few moments before saying quietly, “Without music, life would be a blank to me.”

A smile tugged at the corner of your lip. “Jane Austen,” you said.

And his face broke out into a soft smile of its own, just as it always did when you recognized his quotes. “Emily Dickinson is your favorite poet because she writes for those who want to experience life.” he said gently. “Music is in every part of life, isn’t it?”

He _did_ have a point, but what you couldn’t understand was why he was so adamant about this, why he _cared_ so much. Before you could open your mouth and ask, his phone went off.

You waved your hand as he looked at you apologetically, diving into his pants pocket to procure his flip phone.

“This is Dr. Spencer Reid,” he said. His face immediately went grave, and he stood quickly, nearly stumbling over at the force. “Oh, god, okay. I, uh… sorry, could you give me one second.” He put his hand over the microphone, looking down at you with a barely controlled frenzy. “I’m sorry. I have to… It’s my…” He trailed off.

 _Mom_ was the unspoken word there. The thing about having dead family members is that once other people knew, they got weird when they brought up their own still _living_ family members. Even after knowing you for so many years, Preston still fell victim to it when he talked about his dad and step-mom.

No one seemed to realize that acting like that made it hurt so much more, like it was a reinforcement of what you were missing, of what you’d never have again.

To save both you and him the grief, you just whispered, “Go. I’ll see you tomorrow,” and pointed towards the door. You made a mental note to check in with him about it the next day, just to make sure he was alright.

Spencer nodded, shooting you a grateful smile, before grabbing his things and practically running out the door.

And when he was gone, and you were left in the cold silence of your apartment again, you sighed. The solitude and isolation of this place used to be your sanctuary, but now, it tended to feel lonely.

Your head lolled back against the arm of the couch, and you closed your eyes.

_Without music, life would be a blank to me._

For years, you had drifted through your life in a numb haze, joyless and solemn. The world had lost color; hell, your world was _still_ gray.

But perhaps Spencer had a point.

You swung your legs off the couch and padded across the room to the piano. Of their own accord, your hands opened the fall board, and you found yourself seated at the bench, foot poised over the suspension pedal. But before you could launch into a piece that was still at the tips of your fingers despite all these years of disuse, your mind wandered back to that time in your life.

The red dresses you would wear when you performed. The swell of pride in your chest. The two hands that used to accompany you on the keys, matching you chord for chord, arpeggio for arpeggio, stroke for stroke.

Then there was the warmth of his body seated on the bench beside you. The laughter as your fingers chased each other across ivory keys. The gentle touches that extended beyond the realm of music.

Again, your eyes drifted to the newer collection of Faulkner books—the only physical reminder you still had that he existed in your life.

The lump in your throat returned.

Those pieces, the ones you would never forget even if you went a century without even _looking_ at a piano, were forever off-limits. The girl who played those pieces was from another world, living a different life—one in which you no longer wanted any part.

And though you had played for joy for so many years, perhaps you could learn to play for sorrow, as well. And there was one piece you knew that could convey all that you were not ready to say or admit to yourself.

So you rose and looked through the books on the top of the piano, finding your book of Schubert’s piano sonatas and opening to the second movement of his piano sonata in b-flat major.

You had learned to read sheet music as soon as you had learned to read, but years of neglect left you out of practice. Still, your hands lifted to the keys, and slowly, you began to play for the first time in years. It was far from perfect—full of pauses, and mistakes, and slip-ups. But the piece, slow and solemn while vacillating between major and minor keys, told a story of loss and longing.

It told the story that you were still not ready to tell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys for bearing w me these past few chapters! Smut and lots of plot return in the next chapter :) thank you for reading!


	13. Almost a Loneliness

Rarely did you walk into work refreshed and fully awake, ready to face whatever the day would throw at you, but as you walked through those glass doors, you felt like you’d woken up from a years-long-sleep.

You’d spent over an hour sitting at your piano the previous night, allowing yourself to revisit the part of you that you’d shut down for fear of what it might awaken. You played through andante sonatas and morose nocturnes, never venturing to the quick-paced and loud pieces that your younger self favored. That long-abandoned girl played to impress. You supposed that the woman you were now would play to say the words that you couldn’t find yet.

Music is the language of the silenced, after all. Perhaps you could use it to find your voice again, to process the pain that now came with that instrument.

“Hey, hey, she’s back,” Morgan said as you walked by him to your desk, raising his coffee mug in a toast. “How was your _vacation_?”

You scoffed. “Believe me; _that_ was anything _but_ a vacation.”

Morgan grinned back at you from behind his mug and took a sip as you began unloading your things onto your desk. You glanced across the aisle to find Reid’s desk empty.

“Where’s Reid?” you asked Morgan, scanning the bullpen for signs of Spencer.

He shrugged. “He probably just stayed up too late reading _A Brief History of Time_ again, or something. He’ll show up soon.”

Just as Morgan rose from his seat, the telltale sound of Garcia’s heels crescendoed towards you. She rounded the corner, her hand held high in the air with colorful pieces of paper in them. Garcia handed one to Morgan as she walked by, waving for JJ and Prentiss—both of whom had been chatting at the coffee station—to approach her as well. She began to speak as she passed you a paper, too. It was crafted from red construction paper and decorated with green glitter glue.

“Ladies and—” She gestured to Morgan, “—beautiful specimen, you are all cordially invited to my Christmas extravaganza.”

“What’s this?” Rossi asked as he ambled over from his office, drawn by the commotion.

Garcia rolled her eyes, handing him what you now knew was an invitation. “Like I said, my Christmas extravaganza! Come over for fun, friends, and food, and _you_ —” She turned towards you, now, pointing an accusing finger, “—are _not_ getting off the hook this year. It’s BAU mandatory; all agents _must_ attend.”

During your first December with the BAU, she had planned something similar, and you’d given her an extremely vague reason that you could no longer recall as to why you couldn’t attend. She’d actually caught you on the security cameras the following day, working well into the night filing reports and scouring through extra cases for ViCAP, Cyber Crime, and the Anti-Trafficking team. When she had confronted you about it, you had just said “sorry” and walked away. You overheard Prentiss chastising Garcia about “crossing boundaries” later on, but truthfully, you couldn’t have cared. At the time, you liked the idea that Garcia would have a reason to dislike you; you thought it would make her try less hard to be your friend.

Clearly, you were wrong, and you were better for it.

The idea of spending the holidays doing anything but drowning in work and drinking yourself to sleep up until recently had been abhorrent, but now, your usual plans made your chest feel hollow.

So you shrugged and said, “Okay, I’ll be there.”

The team collectively froze and stared at you.

That was fair.

You tried again: “I’m serious. When is it?”

Slowly, Garcia’s lips spread into a grin. She shook her head slightly as if to shake herself out of a trance, and, still smiling, said, “It’s, um, it’s on December 22nd. I didn’t want to take up the actual holiday.” She gave pointed looks to JJ, Morgan, and Rossi. “Some of these _adults_ have _spouses_ or _kids_ , _ugh!_ ” Though she ended with humor, you could see the light shining in her eyes as she looked at you.

You liked being on the receiving end of happiness, of knowing that you had brought joy to someone instead of hurting them. So you smiled back even wider. “December 22nd. I’ll put it in the calendar.”

You turned your back on the group, moving to put her “invitation” on your desk, when you spied Preston walking through the glass doors of the BAU. You tensed up as you heard Garcia gasp.

Preston gave the team a tight smile before approaching your desk. “Hey, Y/N. How are you feeling?”

Well, at least he ditched the moniker this time. “Better. Do you need something? You could’ve just texted.”

“Right, well… I was already around.” He stole a glance to the rest of the team, all of whom pretended to not be listening intently to your conversation. “Can we…” Preston gestured to the doors.

You followed him out of the bullpen and into the hallway. “What’s going on?”

Preston kept walking to the elevators. “Director Boucher wants to see us. Now.”

“What? I didn’t get an email.”

“Yeah, he paid _me_ a visit and told me to grab you.” The elevator arrived and the two of you stepped in. Preston clicked the button for the highest floor rapidly. “He was meeting with Chief Dummel, and as he was leaving, told me as an aside, like it was an afterthought,” Preston scoffed. “And you know he _barely_ pulls actual meetings with us, so I honestly have no idea what he wants.”

The light feeling that had briefly warmed your body suddenly vanished, and you were left cold. Then, guilt began blooming in its wake—guilt that you had been distracted from this case, that you’d chosen _yourself_ for a few days over working on it. So you just nodded, numb, even as Preston caricatured Boucher until the elevator doors opened again.

The walk to his office stretched before you, and when you arrived, you knocked hesitantly on his open door.

“Director Boucher, you wanted to see us?” you said, slowly walking into the room with Preston right behind you shutting the door. Instinctually, your back straightened, and your hands clasped together. When he gestured for the two of you to sit in the chairs opposite his desk, you did so with overthought grace, crossing your ankles, angling your knees diagonally, and delicately folding your hands on your lap.

Boucher brought out whatever remained of that long-forgotten girl, always tugging on the piece of you that you never wanted to bring to the surface again. Though she had died long ago, those fundamental, unshakable parts of her reanimated in his presence, and she took over unless forcibly shoved away—proper posture, proper words, proper girl.

Good girl.

Boucher smiled from his place behind the desk. “Thank you for such a prompt response,” he said. “I’m sure you’re both busy, so I’ll try to keep this brief. I’m dismissing both of you from the case.”

You felt the color rush from your face, your heart falling into your gut, and your entire body go numb. Blood roared in your ears, your vision lacing with darkness. The hands in your lap squeezed together to hide their trembling. “What?” you whispered.

“Hang on. You said we got one more lead, and far as I know, we haven’t submitted _anything_ to you for approval since last time,” Preston said. His voice was tight with agitation.

“Oh, I’m aware, Agent Preston. Agent Brecker, however, has been far more proactive than the two of you. She found a new avenue to pursue, and so, she’ll be handling the case from now on—assuming, of course, that what she found is worth investigation.”

That brought you back from the edge a bit, but rather than gaining clarity, you were twice as confused. Maryanne Brecker, a fiery redhead with hazel eyes from Chicago, was the New York City field agent that worked this case with you and Preston, and even then, she really only communicated through Preston. He was the one who convinced her to be your eyes in the city, which was ironic considering the fact that Preston and Maryanne had a history of animosity. You suspected she didn’t particularly like you, either, but whenever she was brought up in conversation, Preston could rant for hours if left unchecked about everything “wrong” with her.

They also hooked up every single time she was in DC. And every single time, Preston would tell you that it would _never_ happen again.

You just wondered when he would finally grow a pair and ask her out.

But regardless, Maryanne never chose leads for this case; everything had to go through you before it went to Boucher for approval.

“I’m… sorry, but we weren’t informed of her decision nor her findings,” you said slowly.

Boucher folded his hands on the table, exhaling through his nose. “Given the nature of her most recent discovery, we both decided that it would be best to keep it confidential. She will be going undercover as a drug runner in an organized crime ring we’ve been tracking for years. She will be communicating through me at set times throughout the month to report back, so neither of you are to have any contact with her whatsoever. Is that clear?”

You nodded while Preston muttered, “I _guess_.”

Then, Boucher smiled again, this time apologetically. “But my previous statement stands. If this does not bring us closer to solving the case, then I _will_ be terminating the mission.”

“I understand,” you whispered.

“Both of you have plenty of vacation days left for the year. Take time off for the holidays. Let someone else carry the brunt of this for now,” he continued. Though he spoke to both of you, Boucher kept his eyes on you.

Preston scoffed, “Is that it? Are we done here?”

Boucher finally turned back to Preston. “Yes, we’re done. You can go. Y/N, though, I’d like to speak privately with you, if you don’t mind.”

Of course.

So you nodded when Preston’s eyes flickered to you, silently asking if you’d be okay. Preston stood with a sigh and left the office, closing the door behind him.

“What else can I do for you, Samuel?” you asked.

He breathed a laugh as he stood up. He ambled over to the window, crossing his arms and staring down at the street below. “Have you thought more about the transfer to New York?”

You tilted your head back with a sigh. “I’m not transferring to New York. Not now. Not ever.”

Samuel stayed by the window, silent. Then, he softly asked, “Will you be attending the art auction and gala in January?”

“Is there something that we need to discuss, or can I go, because I do have quite a lot of work to get done.” He turned back to you, expecting an answer. So you sighed and said, “No. You _know_ I don’t attend them anymore. Why are you asking?”

“I was talking to Victor last night. He misses you dearly,” he answered. He paused before continuing. “So does Alexander.”

Your heart constricted in your chest. That long-forgotten girl, the one who now only ever appeared for Samuel, shriveled in response to his words. All that was left was you as you were now—bitter and broken. “Do you and Alexander make a habit of talking about me?” you spat quietly.

You thought that Samuel would have bitten back at you for your impertinence, but instead, his eyes softened even more. “No, but he still loves you, Y/N. He’s grown into a fine man.”

And there they were—the words you simultaneously loathed and hoped for, despite not having an ounce of affection left in your body for Alexander Marseille. You hated the paradox he introduced into your mind every time it wandered far enough to find him again.

Your eyes fluttered shut. “Why are you bringing this up to me now?” you asked in a husk whisper.

“Your parents only ever wanted one thing for you: happiness. You’ve isolated yourself from everyone who still cares deeply about you. That’s a lonely way to live, Y/N.”

“Do you not remember why my relationship with Alexander ended, Samuel?” The words were dangerous for you, inching closer to that forbidden story that you could barely tolerate to acknowledge as a part of your history. It reminded you of that weakness—of the despair that was all-consuming and funereal. It reminded you of the one thing that you would never speak aloud.

This conversation needed to end.

“It’s been nearly ten years, Y/N,” he answered. “Your parents would not have—”

You cut him off, your voice rising and wavering, “Why don’t you let me worry about what they would and wouldn’t have wanted, and, since I’m apparently not on the case anymore, _you_ worry about catching the piece of shit that _murdered my family_.”

Your words rung in the air between you. You never really snapped at Samuel like this; he was doing you a favor by even allocating any resources to you, after all. You needed to maintain some level of cordiality, even if you resented him. But he was edging into territory he had no business talking about, and you were not going to let him try and parent you.

Samuel opened his mouth, then closed it, nodding with resignation. He raised a hand and rubbed it across his chin. Well into his 60s, he looked like his age was finally catching up to him; he looked tired. “Alright,” he responded quietly. “You’re dismissed then.”

“Thank you. Give my best to the Marseilles.” You didn’t wait for him to say anything. Instead, you stood and turned on your heel, storming out of his office.

Preston, as always, was waiting for you across the hall. You strode past him to the elevators, and he picked up his pace to keep up with you. When you arrived back on the BAU’s floor, you skipped the glass doors and instead turned left towards Garcia’s office.

It was only when you turned the corner that you finally stopped, leaning against the wall and putting your face in your hands.

You heard Preston stop in front of you.

“I’m fine. Go back to ViCAP,” you mumbled into your hands, dragging them down your face before dropping them at your sides. “I just need a second. You don’t need to babysit me.”

Preston breathed a laugh through his nose before his face grew a little more grave. “Are you gonna let Maryanne take this, though? Are you gonna walk away for now?”

“Why are you ask—”

“Because I need to know whether or not you’re gonna go off the rails.”

You stared at him. He stared back.

Finally, you caved, slumping even farther against the wall and letting your thoughts flow through your lips. “I’m not used to not being in control of this. I hate Maryanne for not telling _us_ first, and I hate the fact that I _hate_ her for it because that’s juvenile. Boucher is a grade-A asshole, and I’m terrified of what’ll happen if she doesn’t come up with anything.”

“I know, sweetheart.”

“And—” Your breathing picked up, your voice edging into a whine as a torrent of emotion bubbled up from within you, “—if she doesn’t get anything, if he _ends this_ , I don’t—I—I can’t just leave it alone, Pres. I _can’t_.”

Maybe you would have been alright had the conversation ended when Boucher dismissed Preston, but then he had to bring up Alexander.

And thinking back on that was something that, no matter how much time had passed, you were certain would always feel like death.

“Hey, _hey_ ,” Preston said as he took a step towards you and gently placed his hands on your forearms. “I’m sorry it’s going down like this, but you’ve gotta keep it together here.”

You took a deep, shaky breath. “I know. I know. I’m sorry.”

You hated this—this weakness, this fear, this uncertainty.

You hated this part of you—the part of you that succumbed rather than overcame.

Preston brought his arms around your body, and ordinarily, you’d shove him away with a scoff. But you didn’t protest as he pulled you to him for a brief moment, your head resting against his chest as you struggled to keep your breathing under control.

Neither of you noticed the footsteps until you heard an, “Oh.”

You shoved Preston away and found Spencer with his hand poised over the doorknob of Garcia’s office.

“Hi, you’re here,” you breathed, both flustered at being caught in a vulnerable moment and surprised at his appearance.

“Uh, yes. I work here?” He half-gestured down the hall with his hand to the BAU bullpen.

“No—yes, I mean, obviously. It—jus—you weren’t here earlier, so…”

“There was a track fire. The train was delayed.”

You breathed a laugh. “Oh, that makes sense.” Your face suddenly felt warm, in part due to your near breakdown, but also because of the fact that Reid had seen it.

Preston cleared his throat and shifted on his feet, turning to you. “I should—”

“Yep. I’ll talk to you later, Pres.”

You watched as Spencer tracked Preston with his eyes, offering nothing but a nod of his head in acknowledgement and his signature tight-lipped smile as Preston left. Then his gaze turned back to you, and some of the tension in his face softened.

“How are you feeling?” he asked. “Are there any lingering symptoms?”

You shook your head. “Nothing that an Advil couldn’t help. How’s your mom?”

Spencer looked like he might wave it off, mouth half opened and poised to tell you everything was fine, but all that came out was a sigh. “Not great,” he answered quietly. “She, um, attacked one of the nurses at the newest facility, and…” He raised a hand to his head, rubbing his brow in frustration as his face scrunched. “I had to convince them to let her stay there until I could find a new place, or figure out a different combination of medication that might help her more, or…” Another sigh. “I don’t know. I’m just… failing her.”

“Reid, don’t say that,” you murmured.

The corner of his lips tugged up in a sad smile. “But it’s true, isn’t it? I can’t even…” He trailed off, casting his gaze down towards the ground and swallowing thickly.

Yet another contradiction introduced to you—the comfort you found in knowing that Reid was struggling with a self-ascribed failure just like you were, and the overwhelming bitterness you felt towards the world for even daring to try and bring him down. Despite your own burdens, and the understanding that you would break if anything else were piled onto you, you would have traded anything to take his away from him, to carry them along with yours.

Reid was good. He deserved good. And you wanted to try and give that to him, even if you knew you could only ever provide the opposite.

You just hadn’t the faintest clue as to how you could do that.

His sharp inhale brought you back out of your thoughts. “Do you want to… come over tonight?” There was that familiar implication in his question, one that held no expectation, but a shade of hope nonetheless.

“Okay.” Your answer came too quickly, too eagerly, like you couldn’t hold it back. Truthfully, you had thought that your arrangement ended that night in his apartment. The fact that it didn’t was relieving. After the shit storm that had been the last two weeks, after the meeting with Boucher, you _needed_ a night of distraction. And after what he’d had to deal with, you weren’t surprised to learn that he needed one as well.

“Great. I have too—” He pointed towards Garcia’s door. “—so I guess we’ll talk later.”

And _you_ needed to make up all the work you’d missed while you were out. But your feet felt heavy, rooted in their spot, like your body wanted to stay here talking with Spencer despite all you had to get done before the day ended.

What the fuck was happening to you?

You forced yourself to nod. “Yeah. Yeah, we’ll talk later.”

He smiled before turning the doorknob and heading into Garcia’s office, where he was met with a perky, “Why _hello_ , Boy Wonder!”

You laughed to yourself quietly as the door shut, and you walked back towards the glass doors.

When you arrived back at your desk, you glanced back at Garcia’s invitation. Samuel’s words rang in your ears: _you’ve isolated yourself from everyone who still cares deeply about you_. You frowned.

The assumption there was that the only people who “cared” about you were those from the past. But as you looked around the bullpen—at Hotch talking on the phone in his office, at Morgan and Prentiss laughing by the break station, at JJ walking into Rossi’s office, and then at Spencer’s empty desk—you realized that Samuel was wrong. Yes, you had isolated yourself to an extent; you had separated yourself from the life you didn’t want anymore, but even though you tried to keep an arm’s length away from your colleagues, you knew that they didn’t hold it against you.

And you knew that you’d do anything for them.

You knew that despite all your best efforts, you had found yourself a family in the BAU. And you didn’t want to lose this one. You couldn’t.

So you dug your phone out from your back pocket and put in the date for Garcia’s “Christmas Extravaganza.”

That seemed like a good first step, you thought with a smile.

You put your phone away, sat down at your desk, and began digging through all of the files and reports that had piled up while you were away.

***

You and Spencer arrived at his apartment well past 9pm that night after stopping for a quick dinner at a nearby Thai restaurant. Despite the fact that conversation flowed as easily as it ever did, a new tension had settled between you, and when you left the restaurant with his hand resting on the small of your back as you walked back to your car, your body felt electric.

You didn’t know what had gotten into you lately, but you didn’t want it to stop.

There was _one_ moment between when he closed the apartment door behind you and before your hands were all over each other of stillness, of calm, of a smile shared between you. It was a moment of trust and understanding and respect.

And then it was blissful chaos.

He reached out to you first, one hand cradling your jaw as he bent his head to meld his lips to yours, the other wrapping around your waist to pull you flush to him. You gasped at the force, of the new level of possession in his touch, but didn’t hesitate to thread your fingers through his hair.

Spencer backed you up against the wall and forced your arms down so he could slide your coat off of your shoulders. Despite his typically organized self, he seemed to have no issue tossing it to the side to be found later. You helped him shed his outer layers too, and when he began moving again towards his bedroom, your foot slipped out from under you on a stray discarded article of clothing.

A gasp of surprise left your throat, but before you could even begin to fall, Spencer’s arm was wrapped under your ass, quickly picking you back up without letting his lips deviate from yours for too long. Your legs wrapped low around his hips, your core rubbing up right against the telling bulge that was already growing in his crotch.

He took a sharp intake of breath. You wound your arms around his neck, bringing his lips crashing back down onto yours, and, breathless and already aching for him, you nipped at his bottom lip just to elicit another one of his quiet groans. With you still in his arms, he finally made his way over the threshold of his bedroom door, pinning you against the wall beside the door frame.

His lips trailed from yours down to your neck, licking and sucking hard enough that you were certain you would find red marks in his wake, before coming back up and kissing the corner of your mouth. Then he pressed his forehead gently against yours. His breath came out in light pants, fanning out softly across your face. You angled your jaw to kiss him again, but he pulled back the slightest bit.

“You’re okay with this, with… with me being…?” he breathed, trailing off. He didn’t have to say; you understood what he meant.

He wanted to feel in control. And with the day you’d had, you were more than happy to let him.

You pursued his lips anyway, nipping again before whispering, “Yes, Reid. I’m yours to command.”

It was, of course, just a dialogue between your two bedroom personas, but his eyes flared nonetheless at your words. He seemed to hesitate for another moment, but then breathed a laugh and dropped you from the wall.

Your legs caught you, but before you could react further, he spun you around. Your hands flew out to catch yourself from slamming against the wall. And then his arms wrapped around your torso, and you could feel the tent in his pants pressing up against your lower back. You wanted to take care of that for him, but it seemed like he had other plans to attend to, first.

His hands came around the front of your slacks, quickly unbuttoning them and pulling them down just below your ass to reveal your panties. One of his hands then snaked up to your jaw, where his thumb and ring finger gently pulled your mouth open so that he could shove his first two fingers into your mouth. Instinctually, your lips closed around him, your tongue swirling around his fingers, saliva beading on your lips.

When he was satisfied, he yanked his hand from your face and quickly dove down the front of your panties. His coated fingers wasted no time sliding into you, the heel of his palm rubbing against your clit.

Something between a gasp and a moan fell from your lips, your head falling forward and your fingers curling against his wall. His other hand splayed flat against your chest and pulled your torso towards him until your back was pressed flush against him. Then, with his free arm hooking itself underneath your shoulder, effectively immobilizing your upper body, he began plunging his fingers in and out of you, rubbing the anterior wall of your core with just enough pressure to make you want to melt in his arms.

Another moan rose from your throat, and you stifled it. His free hand shot up to your jaw, opening your mouth again, and he shoved his thumb past your lips and into your mouth to keep it open. “I want to hear you,” he murmured into your ear.

And who were you to deny him that?

As he worked you closer and closer towards that precipice of pleasure, you unashamedly let every incoherent noise tumble from your lips—every pant, every curse, every gasp, and every moan. And as you felt that ball of tension in your abdomen grow to burst, you prepared yourself for his usual trick of edging you.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he let your legs tremble from the weight of holding you steady while you came on his fingers. He let your back arch against him, your hips grinding down on his hand involuntarily as wave after wave of pleasure ricocheted through your body. And through it all, he didn’t ease up once; he continued rubbing your clit with the heel of his palm and finger fucking you until you were nothing but a limp, panting mess.

He didn’t let you catch a second to breathe. He spun you around and backed you up until the backs of your knees hit his bed, and you were forced to sit, still gulping down air from the force of your orgasm. You glanced down at the tent in his pants, and the depraved gleam you saw in his eye when you looked back up at him made you smile.

Despite your bedroom personas, you reached out to him, hooking your fingers through his belt loops and pulling him towards you. He didn’t protest when you began unbuckling his belt and unzipping his pants, and he didn’t stop you from pulling them down with his boxers to free his cock from its constraints. You wasted no time leaning forward and taking the head in your mouth, swirling your tongue around it as you drew a sweet gasp from his lips. One of his hands came up to your head, threading his fingers through a chunk of your hair before grabbing tightly, while the other anchored itself on your shoulder. You bobbed down his shaft, taking inch by inch at a torturously slow pace. When you felt him hit the back of your throat, you brought your own hand up to stroke what you couldn’t fit, and finally began sucking him off.

You could imagine his eyes fluttering shut as they always did, his nose scrunching, his jaw slack and half open as he panted breathlessly. The hand in your hair trembled, like he was restraining himself from grabbing your head and fucking your mouth himself. But he recognized this as _your_ moment, and you were glad for it. You much preferred being in control of _this_ , of drawing gasp after gasp from his lips like he did to you when you could.

But just as his breathing picked up, and just as he rose to that edge, he quickly pulled out of your mouth with a groan.

You looked up at him. “Are you okay?” you asked, your voice hoarse from the activity, saliva dripping down your chin.

“Yes,” he breathed, “that’s just not how I want to finish.”

You smiled and stood from your place perched on the edge of his bed. You wrapped your hand around him, pumping once just to see the tortured expression on his face, before slowly sliding your hands up his torso to his collar. Wordlessly, you began unbuttoning his shirt.

The two of you undressed each other. Initially, it was slow—an article of clothing for an article of clothing. But when you stripped the final pieces from each other, when there was nothing left between you, the air was charged again. Electric.

You were a tangle of limbs, your bodies crashing together like you could no longer stand being apart for another second as you tumbled on top of the sheets of his bed. With your back against the bed, you wrapped your legs around his hips, attempting to draw him into you, but he shook his head before you could even try.

“Get on your hands and knees,” he whispered.

So you did without another word, arching your back and slowly backing your ass up towards him to give him a bit of a show. His hands roved over your ass, your back, then up to your shoulders. Then his hand found its way into your hair again, pulling a chunk of it taut as he slid into you.

He typically liked to tease you, sliding in inch by inch and forcing you to take it, even as you whined for him to just fuck you already. But just like before, he wasted no time with such tricks, and instead began fucking you hard from behind.

You fisted his sheets, your head turned to the side with your cheek pressed into his bed. His free hand fell from your shoulders and over yours, grabbing hold of both the sheets and your hand underneath his. You could see veins bulging through his skin.

There was something different about this time with Reid—something more possessive, more aggressive—and, _god_ , you loved it. You loved the way his hips crashed into your ass without abandon, the way his hand pressed yours into the mattress, the way he grabbed fistfuls of your hair like they were his. You loved having something he wanted to take for himself. You loved his primary destressor—his plaything, nothing but a vehicle for his pleasure.

And you found yourself building towards that edge again, quicker than you anticipated. Panting, you moaned his name again, begging him not to stop.

He chuckled darkly and proceeded to drill into you harder. And when that hot knife of pleasure ripped through you, when your back arched deeply and your vision went white, you felt his hips stutter against yours, too, as he climaxed with you, a final raspy groan wrenching from his throat and echoing through the dark room.

He slowly slid out of you after both of you had caught your breaths, collapsing onto the bed beside you with a huff.

You turned over to face him. His eyes were still closed, his mouth half open as his breathing continued to calm, but when he opened them, there was nothing of the powerful deviant who’d fucked you into the mattress; there was just the soft brown irises of Spencer, searching yours for anything amiss.

You couldn’t stop yourself from reaching out and cupping the side of his face in your hand, a tender and silent way to confirm that all was well.

Spencer leaned into your touch, his eyes fluttering shut again with a quiet sigh. He turned his face so he could press a kiss to your palm.

Your heart skipped a beat at the sight.

You swallowed as your face warmed.

When his eyes met yours again, he breathed a laugh, and a soft smile rose to his face. Your body surged forward slowly; you couldn’t ignore the desire to kiss that smile with your own.

Spencer tensed up for a brief second, surprised by the sudden affection, but his arms quickly wrapped around your torso, and he gently returned your kisses. Your lips met languidly, neither of you concerned about any burden that plagued you.

Then he pulled away, and asked in a whisper, as if to not disturb the strange peace that had settled over the two of you, “Do you want to stay the night?”

The word _yes_ was poised on your lips. You almost said it.

“I should go home,” you whispered back instead.

And the spell was broken—no longer two lost individuals driven by the laws of desire, but colleagues and friends once again.

He nodded. “Okay.”

You couldn’t help but note the disappointment on his face. You chose to not think more about it, about what it could mean.

So you got dressed and picked up your discarded coat from the floor of his living room. After a quiet goodbye at the door, you headed back to your car and drove home.

And when you arrived back in your apartment, you set your bag down on your couch with a sigh, flopping down onto the cushion beside it. You leaned your head back and closed your eyes for a moment, letting the ache in your chest finally fizzle out, before turning to your bag and unloading your things.

Garcia’s invitation fluttered out with file folders and fell to the ground.

You picked it up, finally actually reading the rest of the letter instead of just the date:

_Fun and festivities! Christmas songs and merriment! Don’t bring anything but your lovely selves (aka: no presents!!!)_

You sighed with relief at the fact that presents were not only not expected, but were prohibited for this occasion. You wouldn’t even know where to start if you had to buy Christmas gifts for the team.

And the fact that you didn’t know any of them well enough to even try made your eyes water.

You blinked hastily to rid yourself of the tears. 

But even still, you’d wanted to get something for Spencer, at least—just as a thank you for what he’d done for you while you were sick. But with Spencer, it was difficult. You couldn’t just get him a book (anything that would be meaningful to him, he probably owned several copies of already). He wouldn’t care about the latest fancy gadget. So what…

Your eyes drifted to your bookshelf, to the poetry section.

You rose from the couch quickly and made your way over, tearing book after book off of your shelf and piling them onto your coffee table. Then you ran to your office, unlocked the door, and grabbed an empty binder. It was strange, you thought, as you left again, locking the door behind you. You’d never gone in there without losing hours in the case.

But as you dropped the binder onto your coffee table, you smiled to yourself.

Maybe there was something you could make him after all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just here to say that in the coming weeks, updates might be a little slower! things are picking up in school for me, but I will try to keep getting chapters out when I can!! thank you for reading :)


	14. But Holiday Excludes the Night

Like most kids growing up, you had always found something magical about snow. The world would go silent as it fell, a weighted blanket lulling the ground to a peaceful slumber like nothing else could even endeavor to do. And, as a child, you had fond memories of catching white powder on red mittens, of looking up at a monochrome sky that blinded the earth with its splendor and feeling infinite, of finding unspeakable joy in that silence. You could recall days spent sledding and ice skating and sipping hot chocolate on park benches, your nose and cheeks rosy from the bite of frost. 

To you, snow meant that Winter had truly arrived. It meant the beginning of pine trees being sold on busy sidewalks, saturating the air with a scent that you’d never forget. It meant the beginning of Christmas markets popping up across the city. It meant the beginning of the holidays for your family, of presents and of a rare respite from your busy day-to-day life. You’d always been busy, even in your youth.

And you loved the holiday season more than anything else. You loved _December_ more than anything else. From an annual family tradition to see _The Nutcracker_ at Lincoln Center to holiday parties where you got to dress up and show-off your latest tricks to all your parents’ friends, you relished in the festivities and in the delight that seemed to permeate through the air itself.

Now, though, when you walked down streets covered in fresh powder, you didn’t see peace incarnate, nor the beginnings of merriment, but warm scarlet stains that melted down to the dirt beneath. You saw flashing red and blue lights and heard sirens cutting through the once quiet beauty of snowfall. You saw darkness instead of light.

Red had once been your favorite color to wear during the winter. Your young self liked to stand out—loud, bold, and vibrant against the world silenced by snow.

Now, when you wore that color, you sometimes saw familiar crimson blood drying on your skin instead of plain red fabric.

So you tended not to wear red very often anymore.

Garcia had told you all to “dress up” for her Christmas party. After standing in front of your closet for several minutes, trying to decide on an appropriate outfit, you finally settled for an above-the-knee, low cut black wrap dress—classic, chic, and extremely versatile depending on how you accessorized. 

You’d driven to Garcia’s, parking just down the street, but now found yourself frozen in her courtyard. Your hands were dug deep into the pockets of your overcoat, your chin nuzzled into the scarf around your neck. You’d been standing out there for ten minutes trying to work up the nerve to actually enter the god damned building. It was freezing outside, the weather forecast predicting snow later in the evening, but you couldn’t seem to motivate yourself to get out of the cold and into her home.

Connecting with the rest of the BAU was going to be more difficult than you anticipated, for no reason other than your own inability to simply let it happen. More than anything, you wanted to stride into Garcia’s apartment and be a part of their family. But that gaping hole in your chest whispered insidiously to you, calling you selfish, weak, a failure for not spending your time tracking down your family’s killer. How could you be here, building a surrogate family, when your own family lay in the dirt, still without justice even after fifteen years? 

You wondered if the hole would fill once you had the killer behind bars. Or once you killed him with your own hands. Whichever came easier.

You suspected the latter would.

With one final deep breath and then a sigh, you spurred your legs forth, forcing them to carry you up the steps and into her building.

When you arrived at her front door, you didn’t allow yourself time to pause, and instead, rung the doorbell before you could overthink it.

Even from behind the door, you could hear Garcia shriek, “ _She’s here_!”

You couldn’t help the smile that lifted to your face at the sound of it. You didn’t think you’d ever understand how or why your presence brought her joy, but you didn’t particularly care. The fact that it did was enough reason for you to show up.

Garcia yanked the door open. Her face was split in a wide grin, and she was dressed in a sparkly dark green dress, gold and silver jewelry adorning her wrists, fingers, and neck. “And Y/N makes _eight_! We’ve been waiting on you; come in, come in!” She ushered you into her home, all but dragging you over the threshold, and you were met with pine adorning every corner of her home, pale fairy lights draped along the walls, and mistletoes hanging haphazardly from various places on the ceiling.

In the corner of her living room, there was a beautifully decorated (save for a small patch on the tree’s front, devoid of ornaments) fluffy Christmas tree. Her kitchen bar was covered in various holiday themed snacks and drinks, and the apartment was full of laughter, chatter, and classic Christmas songs playing from a speaker by the TV. Hotch, Rossi, and Prentiss were chatting in a circle by the tree. They each gave you a smile and a nod when they spied you walking in through the door.

“Hey, _there_ she is!” Derek cheered from his spot across the room by Reid and JJ, raising his wine glass in your direction. He was as “dressed up” as he ever would be: a grey button down with the collar open and black slacks.

Your eyes went to Reid. He wore his usual ensemble: a white button down, a red sweater on top, slacks, and black converse. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. He was eating almonds out of a metal tin.

And he was looking at you. His eyes flickered down your body—at your outfit, at how it accentuated all of your best parts—before finding your eyes again. Something lit up in his face at the sight of you being here, and he smiled easily in greeting.

The responding smile on your face was impossible to stop, as was the blush that spread across your cheeks (thankfully obscured by the makeup you wore). Those two things seemed to happen in tandem whenever you saw Reid nowadays. His presence lifted something within you, made the world seem brighter than it was. 

It was simultaneously thrilling and terrifying, but you didn’t want it to stop.

Then you thought back to his present, sitting in a gift bag in the backseat of your car, and suddenly, the idea of giving it to him became daunting. In recent years, you’d only ever given gifts to Preston, and that was only ever a bottle of his favorite (and _ridiculously_ expensive) whiskey every year on his birthday. And though you weren’t typically so self-conscious about such things, you found yourself worried over whether or not he would like it.

Maybe you would save yourself the humiliation and not give it to him.

Garcia grabbed a metal butter knife, clinking it against her wine glass. “Friends, Romans, country _-agents_ , lend me your ears!” she called out to the room, which, after a few laughs, quieted. In her brief silence, only the sound of Frank Sinatra singing “Let It Snow!” from the speaker filled the room. “Now that everyone’s here,” she began, giving you a nod with a gleam in her eye, “I’d like to say a few things.”

As she spoke, you poured yourself a glass of pinot noir by the kitchen. This seemed like it would turn into a toast, and you didn’t want to be the odd woman out without a beverage.

While Garcia delved into her spiel about love and friendship and family, you took a tentative sip of your drink. The last time you’d had anything alcoholic to drink was the night before you went to visit the cemetery, and even then, you’d shared the bottle of champagne with Preston and then went straight to bed. 

You’d been reliant on it for so long to dull away the pain, and somehow, hadn’t even realized that you hadn’t felt the need for it this entire month. It was no less present than it had been, no less agonizing, either, but it seemed as if you could now tolerate to live beside that pain—to simply co-exist with it as a fact of your being without feeling an overwhelming need to distract yourself from it.

That, and you _had_ been quite distracted this month. More often than not, you and Spencer would find each other in the night. The holidays seemed to dredge up his own darkness, as well. And just as he offered his services to quell the demons that plagued you, you were more than happy to offer your own.

And, as if on cue, his quiet voice drew you from your thoughts. “Hi,” he murmured.

Garcia was still talking but had gone off on a tangent with Derek while Prentiss laughed on the side. You didn’t want to be rude, but it didn’t seem like she was still giving her emotional monologue. So you turned to him. “Hey.”

“I’m surprised you actually came,” he said.

You looked down at your glass, breathing a laugh. “Yeah, well, I figured I couldn’t turn Garcia down again.”

He smiled. “Well, I’m glad you showed up.” Then, as if he couldn’t stop the words from tumbling from his lips, he added, “You look beautiful.” Immediately after saying it, he pressed his lips together and swallowed. The tips of his ears turned pink.

It was strange to you. When you stripped away the bedroom antics between you two, there was a new omnipresent tension. It wasn’t bad; it was just… different. And you were still able to spend time together and talk with as much ease as you ever did, but it was almost as if there was an added layer to your friendship.

Still, though you’d been called “beautiful” in the past, it felt different coming from Spencer’s lips. It wasn’t a mere polite compliment coming from him; it was his truth, his belief. 

And you hated the way your stomach flipped in response, your own cheeks warming as you smiled and answered, “Thank you.”

And then the two of you stared at each other, dopey grins on your faces, removed from Garcia’s apartment and in a space inhabited by only the two of you. You didn’t want to leave this place with him. You could have stayed there for hours.

Until you realized that the rest of the team had stopped talking.

You broke eye contact to glance across the room, only to find the rest of the BAU staring at you and Spencer. Hotch, though ever stoic, had his lips turned up in amusement. Derek and Garcia were grinning from ear to ear, barely hiding their laughter. Rossi had his brows raised before he turned away to take a sip from his wine glass.

“What?” you asked. 

“Uh,” Prentiss began, half gesturing above your head, “might want to look up, guys.”

JJ laughed under her breath, raising her own glass to take a drink.

You slowly tilted your head back, and you felt your heart drop into your stomach when you spotted the object of their amusement.

A mistletoe.

Of course.

Obviously, you had no problem kissing Spencer; he was literally _inside you_ every other night. And you knew that a kiss was just a kiss and meant nothing in and of itself. But even if it was just a _mistletoe kiss_ , which hardly counted for anything, it was extremely off putting to do so in front of all of your colleagues—especially when they were looking at you like _that_. 

“That’s ridiculous,” you said instinctually, taking a step away from Spencer. “You can’t expect…”

“It’s just unprofessional,” Spencer added, “and against the code of conduct.”

You had to keep yourself from laughing at the irony of his words.

“C’mon, pretty boy. It’s tradition,” Morgan jeered playfully.

“You know,” Spencer began, swallowing, “you could actually argue that the roots of this tradition are ingrained in misogyny. Various European cultures have their own respective histories behind kissing under a mistletoe, from Nordic myths to ancient Grecian festivals like Saturnalia, because of mistletoe’s symbolism of fertility. But the tradition as we know it now likely stems from Victorian England, where, if a woman refused to kiss under a mistletoe, it was deemed as bad luck and meant that she would likely die an old maid without any marriage prospects. She could be societally shunned for refusing. Thus, women were expected to adhere to this tradition regardless of whether or not they wanted to, especially because of the fact that marriage to wealthy men was the only real method of social mobility for any woman in the Victorian era. Denying a kiss could ruin their ‘value,’ and therefore, their chance at a future. It was an act of patriarchal control. When you think about all of that in today’s context, that _really_ just destroys any form of consent or female bodily autonomy. It honestly just doesn’t seem very progressive to lean into that archaic tradition, anymore.”

The room went silent.

“Spencer?” Rossi asked after a few beats.

Spencer blew out a breath. “Yes?”

“It’s not that deep. Kiss your damn coworker.”

You would have laughed were you not the coworker in question. The rest of the room did it for you.

Finally, you just sighed and turned your face to the side, tapping your cheek with your pointer finger.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Spencer sigh before leaning down and pressing a quick peck to your cheek. Your skin tingled when he moved away from you, and, despite the situation, you had to fight the urge to turn your face and kiss him properly.

“There,” you said, facing your colleagues again, “a kiss.”

“ _Boo_!” Garcia called. “That’s such a cop-out!”

“Maybe instead of focusing on this, we should discuss why all of you are such voyeurs,” you quipped.

That caused a bout of laughter throughout the group. Before anyone could continue harassing you and Spencer, Hotch interjected, “Let’s keep it professional, please.”

He glanced over to you, and you shot him a grateful look.

But after that incident, you found yourself relaxing into the space, into your colleagues, into this blossoming family you’d found. The rest of the evening passed wonderfully; you laughed and joked with your friends, drinking good wine and indulging in even better company. And that hole inside you did not cease its whispers—guilt still clawed at your chest—but its words were drowned out by the sounds of the merriment around you.

And for the first time in years, you did not feel badly for being happy. You did not regret coming. 

You only regretted not allowing yourself to do this sooner.

Towards the end of the night, when the “extravaganza” was beginning to die down, Garcia called all of your attention to her once more.

“In the spirit of the holidays, I do have one little activity planned for us,” she explained, reaching down into a wicker basket by her feet and procuring an ornament. Her name was written in fancy calligraphy in gold. “I wrote all of our names on these ornaments, and I left a little space on the tree for them. I was hoping we could say something we’re all grateful for this year while we add our ornament to the tree.”

Derek wrapped his arm around her shoulders, smiling. “You wanna go first?” he asked.

She brushed him off of her. “ _Duh_! I have to show all of you how it’s done.” 

So Garcia strode over to the tree, hanging her ornament and saying something about being grateful for the BAU. Morgan went next. Then JJ, and Prentiss, and Hotch, and Rossi, and then Spencer.

And all throughout it, you just watched them, one by one, talking about their loved ones, their spouses or kids, their families, or just their _lives_. When they spoke, there was unending love for not only the people in the room, but for their lives and every aspect of them. And you couldn’t help but feel jealous—jealous because while they had all undergone their own trials and tribulations, while they had all collected their own traumas over the years, they still looked at the world and were grateful for all that it had given them. They had triumphed.

One day, you hoped that you could be like them, too.

You were so wrapped up in your own thoughts, that you didn’t immediately realize when Spencer handed the wicker basket to you. A lone ornament lay at the bottom with your name on it. 

You offered the room a tight-smile before gingerly picking it up and walking to the tree. “I, uh,” you stumbled. You swallowed and tried again. “I guess the thing I’m most grateful for is you all.” Your voice was quiet, and you kept your gaze on the ornament as you hung it up—right in the last free space beside Spencer’s. You smiled to yourself at the sight of them side-by-side. Then, as a lump formed in your throat, you decided that you could afford a bit of honesty to the people who meant the most to you. “I know I haven’t always been the most… _friendly_ , I guess, but thank you for not giving up on me. Thank you for still treating me like I’m a part of this family. It means a lot.”

You glanced back at the group to find them all smiling at you, and Garcia broke from the pack to come and give you a back breaking hug. “She’s been house broken!” she cried.

That broke the spell over the room, and Derek cackled. 

“She’s not a cat, Penelope,” Prentiss sighed.

“I think she had one too many glasses,” Derek quipped in response.

Garcia released you and turned around, pointing an accusing finger at him, “This is _my_ party and _my_ booze. I can drink _as much_ as I want!”

“Hey, hey, no need to get defensive,” he answered, putting his hands up. “I was just stating facts—not judging.”

After another round of laughter, Hotch looked at his watch and said, “I should be heading out. Remember, all of you are expected in at 9am tomorrow.”

That spurred the rest of you off. You all began putting back on your coats and leaving Garcia’s apartment.

Outside, you all said your goodbyes to one another, heading in different directions.

You watched Spencer begin to walk away before you caught up to him and asked, “Do you want a ride?”

He cocked his head to the side. “It’s pretty late, and we live in opposite directions. You don’t have to go out of your way.”

“It’s fine. I just… I have something for you.” Your voice was breathless, your heart hammering in your chest. It was just Spencer; why were you so nervous about it? The present didn’t mean anything. It was just a thank you gift, and if he didn’t like it, you knew he wouldn’t be a dick about it.

So why did the possibility of him _not_ liking it make your stomach churn?

His brows furrowed. He stole a glance down the sidewalk, where JJ and Prentiss were looking back at him, waiting. You supposed they were all going to take the metro together. Finally, he gave them a tight-lipped smile and waved them off, to which they responded with a shrug and walked off.

You smiled nervously at Reid before the two of you crossed the street to where your car was parked. The air had grown colder since you’d arrived, and you watched your breath materialize in the air as you exhaled, a shiver wracking your body.

When the two of you were settled in your car, he turned to you after buckling himself in. “What did you have for me?” he asked softly.

You shoved your key into the ignition. “It can wait until we get to your place,” you answered.

So you drove to the sounds of Christmas music filtering through the space from the radio. Neither of you had much to say on the drive over, so neither of you spoke, instead opting to relish in the company of one another.

And all the while, as you got closer and closer to Spencer’s apartment, you found yourself growing more and more anxious. You kept telling yourself that this was _Reid_ , thinking it would help quell your nerves, but you were dismayed to find that the reminder made your stomach flip even more. 

Then you realized that yes, it was Spencer, but for whatever fucking reason, you cared _way_ more than you wanted to admit to yourself about his opinion. About whether or not he would like your gift. About if he would see it as garbage or as a little piece of you.

When you pulled up to the curb outside his apartment, he turned to you again. “This is me,” he said, drawing it out as if he could draw out an answer. “Are you alright?”

“Yes,” you answered. Then you just stared at him, unmoving.

He tried again: “Is… there something else?”

You bit the inside of your lip, finally dropping your head and sighing. You unbuckled yourself before twisting around and reaching into your backseat, where you drew a silver gift bag up to place on the center console. “Merry Christmas,” you said.

He jolted, eyes widening as he looked between the bag and your face. “I didn’t—we weren’t—I would have gotten you something, too!” he exclaimed. “Why didn’t you say something earlier?”

You shrugged. “I don’t want anything, Reid. At any rate, it’s a ‘thank you’ gift above anything else. For helping me out when I was sick.”

His eyes softened, and slowly, he reached out and into the bag, pulling out a white binder.

Your anxiety spiked. “It’s kind of dumb. You can throw it out if you want. I won’t be offended.” A lie. The idea of him tossing away your present was crushing.

“What is it?” he asked quietly.

“Just open it.”

So he did, flipping the binder open to the starting page and reading the text. His brows furrowed for a moment before relaxing, a soft smile lifting to his face as he scanned the page.

You’d written a quote from your favorite novel by Faulkner:

_I give you the mausoleum of all hope and desire… I give it to you not that you may remember time, but that you might forget it now and then for a moment and not spend all your breath trying to conquer it._

Spencer’s eyes flicked back up to you in question. “ _The Sound and the Fury_ ,” he said. “His best work.”

“I, uh, I was thinking about putting a watch in the bag, too, but that didn’t work out too well in the novel. It would’ve gone against what I was going for.”

He breathed a laugh. “And what were you going for?”

You gestured for him to flip to the next page. 

He did, reading aloud the title page you’d made, “An Anthology of Y/N’s Favorite Poems about Time.” Spencer looked back at you. “You made me a poetry collection? About… time?” he asked.

You nodded, swallowing. “Yeah, I…” You shifted in your seat. “A while ago you told me that you thought you’d have cured schizophrenia by twenty-five, that you thought you were running out of time. I just… um…” You gestured to the open binder lying in his lap. “I know how hard it is to… watch someone you love suffer.” An understatement. “But, Reid, it kills me to see you sell yourself short, to not understand how amazing you are. You…” You huffed an incredulous laugh, shaking your head to yourself and looking down. “You’ve done more, _accomplished_ more at thirty-four than most people will in their entire lives. And not only that, but you’ve helped _so_ many people because of it.” Then, more quietly, you added, “Myself included.” You paused, stealing a glance back at him before continuing. He was staring down at the binder, his expression unreadable. “You’ve just done so much good in the world _just_ for being you. You’re not running out of time, and you’re not running behind. You’re perfect, Reid, just as you are. So I made you my own… ‘mausoleum of all hope and desire’ just to remind you of that, so that maybe once in a while you can stop worrying about running out of time for a little bit. It, uh, has some TS Elliot, Shakespeare, and Dickinson, of course, among a bunch of others. It’s kind of like a little piece of me, but in literature form,” you said, laughing out of discomfort. “It’s stupid. I’m sure you could recite all of these from memory. You don’t have to keep it if you don’t like it.”

Your face burned, sweat collecting on the back of your neck as he remained silent. Maybe it was a mistake to give it to him. He probably hated it.

He was quiet for a long while. You were starting to worry that you’d offended him when he finally whispered, “No one’s _ever_ made me a gift like this before,” and looked back up at you. You’d never seen that expression on his face before—somewhere between pain and joy and something you couldn’t pinpoint. He looked at you like you’d just gifted him everything beautiful in the world on a platter.

You could have basked in that gaze forever, and you wished that you _could_ give him everything beautiful in the world.

He _deserved_ everything beautiful in the world..

“Thank you,” he murmured. “Really… thank you. I love it.”

“I’m glad,” you said back softly, feeling like a weight had been lifted from your shoulders. You smiled tenderly at him, and he returned the expression.

Then, as if pushed together by the world itself, both of you leaned towards each other at once. His hand moved up to your jaw, gently holding your face to his like you might disappear if he didn’t. Your lips slowly moved against each other. There was no expectation in your kisses; they simply existed in this time, where there was neither past nor future, with you and Spencer. The world outside faded to nothing.

And then you realized what you were doing, what was happening. This was not a moment between two friends. This was not the beginnings of a hook up. This was something more, something new.

The sex you had with him was ultimately meaningless. This was not.

This was something that you could not pursue.

So you pulled back, even as Spencer instinctually chased your mouth for more, and cleared your throat. “It’s, um, it’s late,” you said, slightly breathless. 

“Yeah,” he whispered. “I’ll… see you tomorrow, Y/N.” Spencer reached his hand out to the passenger side door, moving to open it, but then paused and stared out the window. You looked with him.

It was snowing. Barely, delicately, but snowing nonetheless. 

“You know, speaking of poetry,” he began, a smile lifting to his face, “whenever it snows I think of Robert Frost.” His voice was still quiet.

“Really? Why?”

“Because I love ‘Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening.’ Snow is quiet. It’s… haunting, you know? The closing lines of the poem give me the same feeling as watching snow fall at night.”

You did. But you didn’t know how to explain how much you agreed with him, so instead you recited the second to last line of the poem, “And miles to go before I sleep.”

He looked back at you, still smiling. “And miles to go before I sleep,” he finished.

And there it was again—that same expression from before. And though you wanted to bathe in his gaze again, you wondered how long this could go on. How long these moments would be _just_ moments. How long until it would become that _more_.

It couldn’t become _more_.

Spencer opened the door, taking one step out.

“Hey, Reid,” you called out before he could get far.

He turned back again, smiling. “Yeah?”

“You’re a good friend.”

His smile wavered for a moment, and for a split second, you wished you could take the words back, just to keep that smile, that expression, on his face when he looked at you.

Instead, Spencer nodded. “So are you, Y/N. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Reid.”

He turned his back and walked into his building without a second glance at you, silver bag and binder in hand.

With a heavy sigh, you began driving back to your own apartment.

When you got home, your phone rang just as you crossed the threshold of your front door. Your heart leaped, and the primitive part of your brain convinced yourself that it was Spencer calling. 

Instead, it was an unknown number with a Manhattan area code.

You frowned at your phone but picked up the call nonetheless. “Hello?”

“ _Hello. Is this SSA Y/N Y/L/N?_ ”

You paused. “Yes, who’s this?”

“ _This is Chief Maurice Miller. I’m a representative of the FBI’s New York City division. I’m calling to inquire about your transfer status to the position of unit leader of the New York City field agents._ ”

Your eyes fluttered shut, and you sighed. 

Fucking Boucher.

“Yeah,” you said, raising a hand to rub your brow in frustration. “I’m quite content to stay in the Behavioral Analysis Unit, but I could give you the names of several other agents who would be perfect for the job.”

“ _This is an excellent opportunity. We strongly believe you should put more consideration into it_.”

“I’ve considered it. It’s not for me. Have a good night.” 

You hung up the phone without waiting for a response, then stared at your phone screen for a few moments to see if he’d call back.

He didn’t, thankfully.

So you dropped your bag and coat on your living room couch and started heading down the hallway to your bedroom. You couldn’t help but linger outside the door of your office.

You put your hand on the doorknob, but instead of moving to unlock it, you pressed your forehead against the wood and closed your eyes again.

_And miles to go before I sleep..._

You just had to hope that Maryanne would bring something back. You _had_ to.

You released the doorknob and shoved off to your room for the night.

 _And miles to go before I sleep_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote half of this while during a four hour meeting on zoom haha so I'm sorry if something is off in this chapter.  
> Also if you haven't read "The Sound and the Fury" by William Faulkner, here's just a quick context thing about the "mausoleum of all hope and desire" quote (tw: suicide mention): In the novel, one of the characters who's fixated on time is gifted a watch by his father, who wants him to be able to live life without being burdened by "time." The gift backfires and actually spurs the character's obsession, and he eventually drowns himself. That's what Y/N means when she says that she was going to get Spencer a watch, but it seemed like it'd go against what she was "going for."


	15. Blew Out Itself for Fear

You were surrounded by police cars, standing in front of a one story flat in a small town just outside of Burlington, Vermont. To your left, Rossi and Hotch stood beside the sheriff, who was near tears as he demanded to get inside the house. Rossi shushed him and unmuted the cellphone in his hand.

"Are you still there, John?" Rossi asked.

" _I wouldn't be anywhere else, David_ ," the unsub mocked in response. In the background, you could hear muffled cries for help.

As Rossi resumed negotiation tactics, Morgan led the sheriff away and into one of the trucks down the street. You watched them go, looking between them, Rossi, and the house.

On Christmas morning, you had all been called to Vermont to investigate a series of in home murders. All of the victims were brunette teenage girls from the same high school, and all of them had been killed while they were alone in their houses, shot execution style after being restrained for several hours and sexually assaulted.

It took you two days to narrow down your suspect pool to three potential people, but before any of you could chase after those leads at the end of your second day, the sheriff's department had gotten a call. The sheriff's neighbor had seen a tall, disheveled man enter his house after picking the lock for the back door.

The only person home was the sheriff's daughter.

You were in the second hour of negotiation. The unsub in question, John Morris, was a janitor at the local high school, killing girls who resembled the high school crush who rejected and helped viciously bully him for years. Based on the intensity of the litigation marks from past victims, he seemed to have them tied up for three hours before finally shooting them in the head.

So you were running out of time and options.

Hotch approached you on your left. "Rossi isn't making progress. We're going to have to send someone in," he said. "We think he's in the parlor. Sheriff Jackson said the back door would be the best point of entry."

You turned to him, taking your hands out of your pockets as a shiver wracked your body. It had been snowing on and off the entire time you were out there, and there was a thin layer of fresh powder coating the ground. You were freezing.

You rubbed your hands together and said, "Won't he be expecting that now?"

"Rossi's going to keep him distracted on the phone, hopefully long enough for someone to get in there and disarm him. I'm sending you and Morgan in. Cut through the neighbor's backyard so he won't see you from the window."

You thumbed your Glock 19 out of the holster on your hip. "On it."

As Morgan approached you, cocking his own gun, you locked eyes with Spencer, who was going through data with Garcia on the phone. He quickly averted his gaze elsewhere, and you had to stifle the frown that rose to your face.

Spencer had been avoiding you these past few days after Garcia's party, and it bothered you more than you wished it did. It _hurt_ more than you wished it did.

At first you didn't notice, but then you realized that your usual banter across the aisle that separated your desks ceased. He made himself scarce in the bullpen, and when you had tried to talk to him, his answers were short and brief. And you could tell that he wasn't angry or _trying_ to give you the silent treatment; he was just... _avoiding you_. And you hadn't gotten the chance to really ask him what was up because of the case.

After this takedown, you resolved to confront him.

But in the meantime, you had a job to do, and being distracted by your personal life would only result in getting you killed.

You and Derek nodded at each other as Hotch gave you the signal to begin your infiltration. The two of you stalked through the neighbor's yard, crouching below the dividing fence as you went, and quickly hopped over the back portion. Your palms were slick, and you fought to keep your breathing steady.

No matter how many years you spent in the FBI, being a part of a takedown like this would never be any less nerve wracking. One wrong move on your part and anyone around you would go down, too.

Both of you settled on either side of the back door. It was still unlocked from when the unsub had broken in.

You locked eyes. Morgan raised three fingers, then two, then one, before slowly teasing the door open. There wasn't so much as a creak.

From the inside of the house, you could hear John on the phone with Rossi in the distance, as well as quiet crying. Bile rose in your throat, but you swallowed it down. You and Morgan looked at each other again, and he gestured with his gun for you to head in first.

You stepped over the threshold, crouching low to the ground, taking slow, carefully placed steps so as to not disrupt the floorboards. One little noise and your presence would be known.

There were two ways to get to the front parlor. On your left, you could cut through the kitchen and dining room, and on your right, you could walk through the formal living room. You pointed right, and Morgan nodded, creeping towards the living room while you edged into the kitchen.

As you stalked closer and closer, you could hear John's words more clearly. He was going on a rant, talking about the "bitches" and "whores" that their town produced. Your face grew warm with fury.

The entitlement of fragile men would never fail to disgust you.

You crept around the corner of the kitchen and into the dining room, pressing yourself against the wall as you side stepped closer, and closer, and closer. You peered around the archway between the entry hall and the dining room to gain a clear look across the hall and into the parlor.

The sheriff's daughter, Miranda, was tied to a wooden chair. Even in the dim lighting, you could make out fresh bruises decorating her face and exposed arms. She was trembling, sobbing, with mascara smeared across her face and her hair wild and knotted. Your heart ached for her.

You were going to get her out.

You raised your gun, training it on John, whose back was still towards you, and as you took the final step before confrontation, the floorboard _creaked_ under your foot.

You weren't sure who fired first: you or John. But the second you made that noise, John dropped the phone from his hand and whipped around, shooting at you without so much as a second thought.

He fired once before Morgan shot him, and your world seemed to slow as you felt the bullet hit its mark in your chest. Blinding pain exploded in your body, and you went flying backwards, smacking your head on a dining room chair as you fell to the ground. Your world faded from light to dark, and you struggled for breath.

Across the hall, somehow now extremely far away, you could hear Morgan yelling into his com, "Agent down! We need medical, _now_!" before you felt his hands on you.

"Hey, _hey_ , Y/N, can you hear me?" he asked, frantic, scanning your body for blood and injury.

You coughed and then gasped, "Vest caught it. Get the girl."

Derek nodded, and as the front door burst open, the home flooded with agents and police officers. You stayed where you were, wheezing, trying to catch your breath and recover from the impact. Immediately, an EMT was by your side, but you waved him away and groaned, "I'm fine. I'm fine. Go check on _them_."

The EMT seemed hesitant at first, but he finally nodded and scurried across the hall to the parlor. He was quickly replaced by Prentiss crouching beside you, slowly helping you to sit up.

" _Fuck_ ," you whispered, "that hurt."

Through the haze, you could hear John Morris cry out in pain as he was lifted by authorities and escorted out by agents and EMTs. Derek had shot him in the shoulder; it seemed like he'd be fine. Then, you heard Miranda sob her way through several "thank you"s.

At least she was safe, now.

"That's going to be a nasty bruise. You alright?" Prentiss asked.

"I guess," you answered. Finally, your world started coming back into focus, and when you looked up, you saw Prentiss searching for your face for signs of distress, and Spencer standing behind her in the archway.

He seemed frozen in his spot, staring down at you with an unreadable expression. His eyes were slightly wider than normal, his cheeks pink and brows slightly furrowed, and when you dared a glance down to his hand, still clutching his gun, you noticed that it was trembling.

Then Hotch called his name, and as if broken from a trance, he tore his gaze from you and looked out the door. His eyes flickered to you one last time before he strode out the door.

You shook your head, raising a hand and pressing the heel of your palm against your forehead. As your adrenaline began fading, you registered the pain blooming in the back of your head from where you'd smacked it against the chair.

Prentiss helped you to your feet, and as the home continued bustling with investigators, agents, and local law enforcement, you slowly walked out of the house and towards the SUVs, where the team had begun to congregate. Hotch was still speaking with the sheriff by the back of an ambulance, into which his daughter was gently being herded by two EMTs. Spencer was by his side, and when as soon as you were within his field of vision, his head turned towards you.

He was still staring at you with that same expression, the notch between his brows visible even at a distance. And when you stared back, he didn't avert his gaze like he'd been doing these past few days.

You raised your brows in question. He didn't react, so you tore your eyes away and set them on the waiting SUVs.

Prentiss got into the driver's seat while you settled into the passenger's side. "Do you want to get checked out at a hospital? Just in case?" she asked.

You shook your head, slowly maneuvering out of your bulletproof vest. You laid it in your lap before looking down. The bullet was still embedded in the armor, and when you flipped it over to examine the interior, you found a barely raised bump where the head of the bullet lay through the armor.

A centimeter away from certain death.

Ordinarily, you felt nothing towards death. Apathetic. Ambivalent. You had spent so long wondering how you could even _dare_ to live your own life when the lives of your loved ones were stolen from them, after all.

But with that tiny kernel of hope nestled in the cracks of your battered heart, the idea of being so close to seeing that great beyond made your gut twist. You had promised them that you wouldn't see them again until after you caught their killer, and you had spent so many years lying to yourself and to others that you couldn't let this promise end up as a lie, too. You needed to be good, healthy, _alive_ in order to see it through.

Even still, though you knew you should probably get checked out (if for nothing else than a concussion; the back of your head was throbbing), you hated hospitals. You hated their sterile smell, the fussing of doctors and nurses, the bright overhead lights. Everything about them made a cold sweat break out across your skin and your breathing grow shallow.

They brought you back to a time of darkness.

You shook your head again, this time just to clear your mind. "No, I'm good," you finally answered.

Then you craned your head around to look out the window at the rest of the team milling about, finishing conversations with the local law enforcement. You saw police officers escorting John Morris, now in handcuffs, into the back of another ambulance, a shoddily done bandage wrapping around his shoulder. His head was hung low, his face twisted into a grimace.

Good. You hoped he was in pain.

You and Prentiss waited in the SUV for a few more members. Derek and JJ ended up sliding into the backseat, and, as Hotch and Reid were still wrapped up with the sheriff, Prentiss clicked her tongue and said, "They can handle it from here. I'll just drive us back to the hotel. We can get a headstart on packing up for the jet."

She turned the key in the ignition and began driving off.

As you passed by Hotch and Reid, you found Reid's gaze fixed on the car, searching for something.

The expression on his face as he looked at you in the house, on the floor and winded from the impact, was seared into your mind. You couldn't place the emotion; you'd never seen that expression on him before.

You just sighed and tilted your head back, trying to ignore the ache in your chest.

It was a short drive back to the hotel, and when you arrived, you waved off JJ and Derek's concerned looks and headed straight to your room.

Hotch and Reid should be on their way back now, too. You'd all likely be leaving in half an hour. But the cheap bed and rough sheets had never looked more comfortable to you.

You sat down on the mattress, perching on the edge and slowly laying yourself down on your back.

And then your phone started vibrating in your back pocket.

You sighed and slid it out without changing your position. It was Preston.

"Hey," you said as you picked up, your voice flat and low.

He didn't answer for a few seconds. " _Well, that was cheerey_ ," he said.

You rolled your eyes. You didn't want to tell him you'd just been shot, so you said, "Give me a break; we just finished a case. Do you need anything, or are you just bored?"

There was another pause, this time longer than the last.

"Pres?" you tried, finally sitting back up with a quiet wince, "Is everything alright?"

He sighed heavily into the phone. " _Yeah, yeah, I'm probably just overreacting, but..._ "

"But what?"

" _I don't know. I'm worried about Maryanne._ "

You jolted, a smile rising to your face despite the events earlier in the evening. Coy, you said, "Why? She's a field agent. It's not her first time undercover."

You heard the clicking of keys in the background, and he sighed again. " _I know, but running drugs? That's dangerous shit for anyone. And it just doesn't make sense that she'd go over our heads to Boucher. She hates the guy._ "

You breathed a laugh. "So do you, Pres. At any rate, she _is_ technically supposed to report back to him about her findings with organized crime. That's kind of half her job."

A pause. " _I'm just worried about her. I can't shake the feeling that something's up. Sorry._ "

"No, don't apologize. But now that you bring it up, I'm just wondering..." You deliberately trailed off, biting your bottom lip to stifle a chuckle.

" _What?_ "

You blew out a breath. "Well, I'm thinking there might be... you know, a _reason_ that you're worried? Potentially?"

Finally, you managed to draw a low laugh from him. " _And what reason might that be, sweetheart?_ "

"I don't know. The fact that you're both _madly in love_ with each other and won't admit it?"

Another laugh—lighter, this time.

You smiled at the sound. "What, you're going to tell me I'm wrong?"

" _Uh, yeah, she's Lilith incarnate. It would never... I mean, she'd never... well..._ " He trailed off, a pregnant pause taking the space where his voice was.

"She'd never _what_ , Pres?"

When he answered, his voice went quiet again. Vulnerable. It was unlike any tone you'd ever heard him use before. " _Look, maybe 'madly in love' is a stretch, but... when she gets back, and this whole mess is sorted out, and we finally catch this son of a bitch... should I ask her to dinner? I mean, there's no reason for us to keep talkin' after this ends, but... I don't know. I like her energy, for whatever fuckin' reason._ "

Your mouth fell open. "I'm sorry. Is _the_ Christopher Preston asking _me_ for dating advice?"

" _Shut it..._ " You could imagine the uncharacteristic blush spreading across his face, his narrowed eyes, and his furrowed brows. Preston _rarely_ got flustered, but when he did, you made sure to savor the moments when even his suave charisma failed him.

But then, you thought back on his words and your heart began to sink. Preston had a plan after all of this, a future he could see.

If you were able to finally catch your family's killer, if you were able to close this case and finally sleep well knowing that you got them the justice they deserved, what would you have, then? This had been such an endless process, filled with disappointment and despair, that you hadn't even stopped to think about what you'd do with the rest of your life. Half the reason you joined the FBI in the first place was because this. You'd left _everything_ you'd worked so hard for _behind_ because of this.

You'd probably stay with the FBI, continue doing as much good in the world as you could, but...

Your life was empty without this case.

But Preston's wasn't, and though the thought of your own lonesome future dug into a sensitive part of your heart, you also couldn't help but soften at the thought of what Preston could have. Preston deserved that—a bright future full of love and light.

" _Y/N? You good?_ "

You shook your head and raised a hand to press the heel of your palm to your brow. "Yeah, yeah, I just..." You trailed off and sighed. "You should go for it. You deserve someone who can match you, you know? Someone who won't take any of your shit but still care about you. I think Maryanne could be that person for you."

He huffed a laugh, and a comfortable silence settled between you two.

Then, quietly, he said, " _You deserve that too, sweetheart. I know it's hard for you, but you more than anyone else deserve love. You do._ "

Your eyes fluttered shut. Preston was the closest friend you'd ever had, and he knew almost everything about you. But some things you needed to keep for yourself, and why you believed you couldn't have that, why you believed you needed to be alone, as much as that caused an ache in your chest, was something you'd never describe in its entirety out loud.

You could hardly stand to think about it.

"Maybe," was all you said.

You could tell Preston was going to launch into a lecture, but there was a gentle knock on your door. You cut him off, "Listen, I have to go, but it was good talking to you."

He sighed. " _Yeah, duty calls, I guess. Talk to you soon. Love you._ "

"Talk soon. Bye."

You hung up and strode to the door, assuming that it was Hotch coming to check in with you, so when you flung the door open, you did not expect Spencer to be standing on the other side.

Before you could even say "hello," he walked past you into your hotel room. He was tense, agitated, and completely silent.

"Uh, hi?" you said, closing the door behind him.

He spun around to face you. His eyes scanned your face, and then dipped lower to sweep down your body. You crossed your arms in response, stifling a wince as you pressed down on the tender spot blooming on your chest.

Spencer noticed. His leg twitched, like he was going to step towards you and decided against it at the last minute, and his mouth opened slightly. You waited for him to speak, but no words passed through his lips.

So the two of you stared at each other in silence, and just before you were about to open your mouth and ask if he needed something ( _or_ if he was finally done avoiding you), he bridged the distance between you two, slowly wrapping his arms around you. One of his hands cradled the back of your head gently as he held you to him.

Your entire body instinctively locked up.

Then you felt tiny tremors wracking his body.

And maybe it was the lingering emotion from what Preston had said to you, or maybe it was the close brush with death you'd had earlier, or maybe you were just happy that he wasn't brushing you aside like he had been these past few days, but you couldn't stop yourself from finally melting into him. While you'd been hurt by his sudden withdrawal from you, you hadn't realized how much you missed his presence. You were hit by a wave of relief, of the feeling that all the shitty things in your life didn't matter so much anymore because he was here with you again.

You hated the fact that he did that to you— _comforted_ you merely by existing beside you. You didn't want to rely on _anyone_ like that, but for whatever reason, you couldn't bring yourself to step away. Reid helped soothe something in you, something that had been festering and swallowing you whole for years. You wanted to let yourself feel the balm of his presence on that old wound, even if it was just for a moment.

So you brought your arms up around him, gently drawing him even closer to you, and at your reciprocation, he tightened his arms around you.

The two of you stood like that for several moments, breathing in the other's presence, relishing in each others' company, existing together.

Then, he quietly asked, "Are you okay?"

You nodded into his chest. "I'll be fine."

"Are you sure?"

You pulled away, and even though his grip on you tightened again, as if he thought that if he weren't holding you, you would somehow disappear entirely, he slowly released you. "I'm fine, Reid. The vest caught the bullet."

He pressed his lips together, looking down at you. The notch between his brows was still there, and his eyes kept darting around your body, scanning for anything wrong. He didn't believe you. "Did an EMT check you over? Bulletproof vests aren't actually bulletproof; they just rapidly dissipate the energy from the bullet. You could have a cracked rib, or a concussion depending on how hard you hit the floor, or a myriad of other internal injuries."

"No, I didn't see anyone. I'm fine. Promise."

His eyes softened. "Okay, if you say so..." He shook his head to himself, and then, as if he couldn't help himself, his arms came up around you again.

This time, you didn't hesitate to lean into him, breathing a laugh to yourself before frowning a bit. You wanted to ask him what was going on these past few days, why he avoided you at every chance, but you couldn't bring yourself to interrupt this moment. You did, however, wonder why he seemed so fragile right now.

And then it hit you.

The expression on his face when he saw you on the ground, the way his arms still trembled just the slightest bit around your body, the way it seemed like he couldn't believe you even after you'd assured him you were fine.

Spencer was _scared_. Because of what could have happened to _you_.

And just like when you were sick, and he was perched on the edge of your bed ready to do whatever was necessary to help you, you felt that long-abandoned warmth grow a little stronger in your chest. For a brief moment, you let yourself bask in it—in that indescribable feeling reminiscent of coming home after years of travel.

For a brief moment, you let yourself indulge in that warmth, that dream.

And then, reality.

There was not supposed to be a home for you—just an endless voyage on a turbulent sea, ever caught in a storm. _That_ was your penance.

So you needed to leave this place, this dream, and you knew of a sure way to drag you _both_ back to reality. To show him that he had nothing to worry about.

You swallowed. "I'm fine, Reid," you said again. And when he didn't move away from you, you added, pitching your voice lower and banishing the waver from your voice, "Let me show you how 'fine' I am."

Spencer pulled away from you in surprise. "What?" he asked, brows furrowed, head cocked to the side slightly.

You didn't answer verbally, instead opting to take a step towards him, your hands sliding to his chest. You walked him back, back, back, until his legs hit the hotel desk chair. Then, you reached up, pressing your hands down on his shoulders, and sat him down.

He didn't get what you were doing until you braced both your hands on the arms of the chair, leaning forward and ignoring the sharp ache in your chest at the point of impact of the bullet, and kissed him.

He pulled back. "Y/N, wait," he said.

You did, keeping your face but a hair's breadth away from his. "Yes?"

"We're leaving in... the rest of the team is probably... this isn't..."

As he spoke, you dipped your head to the side, trailing soft kisses across his jaw to his neck, where you let your tongue peak out just the slightest bit over your lips. You could feel his body both tensing up with delicious arousal while simultaneously relaxing into the chair. You smiled to yourself.

Regardless of the reason for him distancing himself from you, he missed your touch too much to stop you.

"I'll stop if you really want me to," you said anyway against his neck. Your breath fanned out across his skin, and you felt a shudder run through his body. "Just say the word, and I will stop."

He took a sharp breath as you slid your tongue across his pulse point. "It's not—it's not _that..._ it's just..." His hand reached out and rested on your hip, as if he couldn't stop himself, squeezing.

You pulled back up to look him in the eye. "It's what?" you murmured.

His eyes searched yours, open and vulnerable. It took everything in you to hold his stare. You felt like it was stripping your very soul down to its core.

"You're hurt," he said at last, so quietly you could barely hear it. "You could have... could have... been taken from..." His voice trailed off, shaking.

And there it was again—that fear. It was a fear borne from experience, from a long buried trauma, from a pain that left a permanent scar on his beautiful heart.

You had a feeling you knew what it was.

You made the choice to ignore those implications as they pertained to you.

So you leaned down again, brushing your lips against his ear. "Yeah, I could have died, Reid," you whispered in his ear. His entire body tensed again, and you continued, "But I didn't. And our arrangement is meant to distract us from how shitty this job can be, right? So let me distract us." You finished by nipping his earlobe, and despite himself and his fear and his apprehension, he let out a quiet sigh of bliss. He shifted slightly in his seat. You dared a glance down to his crotch, satisfied to see the bulge that was growing there.

"Is that something you want?" you prodded, going back to leaving feather light kisses on his neck.

He stayed still for a second, silent, and then tilted his head away from you, giving you easier access to the rest of his neck. His eyes fluttered shut, a quiet moan rising from his throat as you trailed a hand down his chest and to his inner thigh. His legs shifted again.

You smiled against his skin, whispering, "I need to hear you say it, Reid. Yes or no."

You kept your hands away from his crotch and instead braced your hands on his thighs. Your face was still nuzzled in the crook of his neck, your breath washing against his skin.

Then, finally, he leaned back into the chair to spread his legs a little wider. His head fell backwards against the headrest. "Yes," he whispered, his voice tight with desire.

Gone were his dominant inclinations tonight. This was entirely your game. And you were more than content to take control.

So you smiled again, pulling away from his neck to look him in the eyes again. His eyes were half-lidded, and his lips were parted slightly. You watched as his tongue darted out to lick his lips. Then, you leaned down again, kissing him deeply.

His hands came up, one poised to sink itself in the thick of your hair, the other ready to gently cradle the other side of your face, but you leaned back out of his reach completely. "No touching," you said.

He raised an eyebrow, a breathy laugh escaping his throat, but then nodded.

You looked down at your watch. You didn't have much time—probably less than five or ten minutes before the rest of the team would come looking for you, wondering why it was taking both of you so long to pack.

You decided on your course of action.

You leaned back down to him, sliding your hands up his thighs as you kissed him one last time. His hands twitched where they rested on the arms of the chair, and you had to bite back a smile. You nipped his bottom lip as you pulled away and slowly sank down to your knees in front of him.

Spencer let out a groan at the sight. The noise sent heat through your body straight to your core.

Slowly, you trailed your hands to where his bulge was straining against the fabric of his pants. You palmed him lightly, teasingly, and his head fell back against the headrest completely now, another delicious groan falling from his lips.

At the same torturous speed, you undid his belt and zipper, prompting him to lift himself up in the seat a bit so you could slide his pants down just enough to give you access to him. His cock was already beading with precum when it was finally freed of its confines.

You wasted no time taking him in your mouth completely, using your hand to stroke what you couldn't fit.

Immediately, his hands flew into your hair, but you released him from your mouth and looked up. Stroking him slowly, and watching his face scrunch up and his breathing pick up, you said, "I said no touching, Reid." You ran your thumb over the head of his cock, and he moaned.

"Right," he breathed, "sorry." His arms returned to the armrests, his hands squeezing the ends, veins bulging from the effort it took to restrain himself.

You smiled and dipped your head again, this time, taking him in your mouth more slowly. You swirled your tongue around the head as you bobbed deeper and deeper, until you felt him hit the back of your throat. And then you picked up a rhythm, getting faster and faster, stroking the base of his shaft with your hand in tandem with your mouth.

" _God_ , Y/N," he moaned. Your name sounded sacred on his lips.

Your free hand came up to cradle his balls, and his hips bucked up into your face in response as yet another groan echoed through the otherwise silent room. His breathing kept getting faster, his moans growing higher pitched as he started rapidly climbing to that delicious breaking point.

And when you could feel his cock pulsing against your tongue, mere seconds away from spilling itself down your throat, you released him again with a _pop_ of your lips.

Another groan, this time, frustrated. " _Seriously_?" he hissed. Your hands stayed where they were, and you rubbed your thumb, now slick with the saliva that had dripped down to the base, up and down his shaft.

"What?" you asked, feigning innocence. "Is there something you want?"

"Don't make me say it," he groaned as he tossed his head back against the headrest.

"Say what, Reid? What do you want me to do?"

He took a few labored breaths and shut his eyes, scrunching his face up. You glanced over to his hands and stifled a laugh when you saw that his knuckles had gone white from squeezing the armrests so hard. You kept stroking him languidly.

Then, he finally groaned through gritted teeth, "Make me cum. Please."

"So polite," you cooed with a smile, and when he scowled down at you, you breathed a laugh. "So I _guess_ I will."

With that, you took him in your mouth one final time, taking up a quick pace bobbing up and down his shaft. Your name fell from his lips again, and within seconds, his hips were inadvertently thrusting up as he rapidly got closer and closer.

And when he finally came, you bobbed your head down as far as you could stand it and had him cum deep down your throat. As if he physically couldn't stop himself, his hands went back to your head, and you let him keep them there. They gripped your hair, trembling as his whole body arched, a loud groan that sounded like an incoherent rendition of your name erupting from his throat.

His hips finally stuttered to a halt, and when he finished, you slowly rose, flicking your tongue against the head of his cock one last time just to elicit a hiss from him at how sensitive it was.

You looked up at him.

His eyes were shut tight, chest heaving, mouth slightly parted as he panted. His hair was tousled from his writhing, and his face was pink and damp with sweat.

He was beautiful like this.

And then his eyes opened and found yours. The lines in his face smoothed, softening him, and his breathing slowed.

Then he spoke. "Are you okay?" he asked. He always asked that after your nights together, either verbally or through a tender caress.

"Yes," you answered like you always did. It was always an understatement.

The corners of his lips quirked upwards into a small smile, and you couldn't stop yourself from rising to your feet and gently taking his lips with yours again. This time, when his hands cradled the sides of your face, you leaned into them, into him, with a content sigh.

And then someone knocked on your door and you jolted up.

"Y/N," Derek called, "we're leaving in five!"

You looked between the door and Spencer, who began quickly righting his clothes. "Got it!" you yelled back. You heard him walking away, and you let out a heavy breath.

You turned back to Spencer. "You should probably get back to your room and pack up," you said.

He stared at you, his expression unreadable. Then, as if jolted out of a trance, he blinked and whispered, "Yeah," pressing his lips together tightly and heading towards the door.

Something didn't sit right with you about letting him walk away without saying anything. The last time you'd had any sort of encounter was in your car after Garcia's, and clearly, something about it had put him off enough that he needed space from you. But the idea of going back to that, of having this cold distance between you, made your heart rate pick up in panic.

"Reid, wait," you blurted out just as he reached for the handle.

He looked back at you. "Yes?"

"I... well..." Your face felt warm again, and you swallowed thickly before continuing in a quiet voice, "I don't know if I did anything to upset you, but I'm sorry for whatever it was."

He blinked. "What are you talking about?"

"It's just... it felt like you've been avoiding me since Garcia's, and I've just... missed you."

God, you sounded like a fucking idiot.

His face softened, and he said, "No... no, sorry. It wasn't you. I've just been..." He trailed off, casting his gaze downwards a bit. Then, he shook his head to himself. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to."

You could tell that he wasn't telling you everything, but you didn't have the time to prod him about it (at least, not unless you wanted to explain why both you _and_ Reid were both, for whatever reason, taking an ungodly amount of time to pack the few things you bring on cases). You supposed you'd just have to settle for that. "So we're okay?" you asked.

He smiled softly again. It didn't quite reach his eyes. "Yes, we're okay, Y/N. I'll see you in the lobby."

And with that, he walked out of your hotel room, leaving you to ruminate as you rushed around the hotel room to quickly pack up your things. Ultimately, even though you knew he was hiding something, you decided that if it were truly pressing, if he _really_ had an issue, he would be upfront about it. So you just took his word for it that everything between you was alright.

The following morning, after being called in an hour early for yet _another_ case, you found a dark green gift bag resting on your desk.

You looked around as if someone would appear and claim it, but JJ, Prentiss, and Morgan were all chatting by the coffee station, Rossi was talking with Hotch in his office, and Spencer was sitting at his desk engrossed in a thick book in Russian.

Then his eyes flicked up to you, and then to the bag, and a small smile tugged at the corners of his lips.

"Did you get me something?" you asked.

Hotch strode from Rossi's office, waving his hand to indicate that the rest of the team should follow him into the briefing room.

Spencer stood up quickly, picking up his fresh mug of coffee from his desk. "See for yourself," he said before quickly following Hotch.

You knew you should head straight to the briefing room, but your curiosity won out. You looked into the bag to find a thick, worn book with a note resting on top of it.

And when you read the note, you couldn't stop the quiet incredulous laugh that lifted from your throat. Spencer had written:

_A belated Christmas present (and an 'I'm sorry for acting avoidant' gift). Your mom read you Dickinson; mine read me Chaucer. -Spencer_

You picked up the book, your eyebrows lifting in delight as you read the title: _Troilus and Criseyde_. Widely heralded as Geoffrey Chaucer's masterpiece, _Troilus and Criseyde_ told the tragedy of two lovers torn apart by the tribulations of war.

You had read his more well-known epic poem _The Canterbury Tales_ in high school, but you hadn't read anything written in Middle English since then. Even then, you'd read the original text alongside a translation. But as you leafed through the pages, you found that not only did this copy contain the original Middle English on the left side of the pages and a modern translation on the right, but each page was also covered in purple markings, notes, and doodles—all in Reid's chicken scratch.

He hadn't just given you a poem; he'd given you a _completely annotated_ poem, full of his thoughts and musings. It was a piece of him in literature form, just like the anthology you'd gifted him.

You could stop the grin that took over your face, nor the blush that spread across your cheeks. You'd received many gifts in your life, but none more thoughtful and personal than this one. It was a gift only someone who understood you would know to give.

You loved it.

So this time, when that warmth that only ever animated because of Reid bloomed in your chest again, you didn't immediately try to kill it. You let yourself live in that heat, in that dream, for a few moments, just until Hotch poked his head out of the briefing room and called your name.

And even then, it didn't really go away—not in its entirety. It still lived in a tiny kernel within you, and for the first time in years, you weren't entirely keen on getting rid of it completely. Just for a little while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not in love w this chapter, but the next chapter is going to be good!! I've been waiting to write it since like the very beginnings of planning this whole story out, so I hope you guys will enjoy it :) thanks for reading!


	16. For That Old Faded Midnight

Your favorite holiday growing up was New Year’s.

New Year’s meant restarting. It was a way to challenge yourself to be better than you were, to achieve more than you already had. New Year’s washed away the failures of the past year and gave you the chance to try again and succeed. And your parents’ New Year’s party was the highlight of it all. Gathered in your apartment, your family and your parents’ friends, all dressed in some sort of gold and silver, all tipsy from the champagne, would watch the Times Square ball drop on television and count down all the way from sixty together, toasting and kissing and cheering when they finally got to zero.

You loved running around that apartment with Elizabeth during those sixty seconds, making sure everyone was watching and participating. The two of you would have sparkling white grape juice in your hand to pretend like you were just like all the adults.

You wanted to be an adult _so_ badly so you could celebrate the holiday properly with them. You couldn’t wait to grow up.

Now, New Year’s was the bane of your existence. It was impossible to escape the New York City ball drop celebration; every public television on the east coast had it playing on their screens, Ryan Seacrest’s face smiling at you in mockery. And you hated watching everyone’s face as they cheered along with the festivities on the television. You hated hearing their screams as the ball began descending down the pole on top of One Times Square. You hated seeing happy couples kiss each other to bring in the new year and people pretend like they could ever be better than they were.

No one ever became better than they were. That was what you learned once you finally became that fabled adult.

Your New Year’s tradition now went as follows: put the New York City celebration on your television to see if you could tolerate it this year, immediately turn it off because you couldn’t tolerate it, drink so much champagne (usually three to four bottles, depending on the day) that you _literally_ pass out on your couch well before midnight so you don’t have to watch the world pretend to “reset.”

When the jet touched back down in Quantico after this latest case at 10:27pm on December 31st, you were already thinking about how many bottles of champagne you had in your wine fridge and wondering if the liquor store around the corner from your apartment would have any Veuve Clicquot left, even as you checked your phone to find _three_ missed calls from the same number with a Manhattan area code. You had rolled your eyes and thought nothing more of it; the New York division had been calling you daily at this point. They just wouldn’t let up. Now, you just resolved to ignore their calls.

And then Rossi, after you all had returned to the bullpen to grab the rest of your things and file away papers, cleared his throat on the steps to call all of your attention.

“Alright,” he said, holding his hands up, “I have a case of vintage Dom Perignon champagne in my wine cellar and enough cured meat to whip up a _mean_ charcuterie board. All in favor say ‘Dave, you’re a godsend.’”

“Dave, you’re a godsend,” Prentiss sighed as she walked past.

“Seconded. Might as well try to salvage this holiday _somehow_ ,” Morgan muttered bitterly.

On and on, the rest of the team, all in various states of discontent, nodded or grunted their agreements. None of you had anticipated getting back before New Year’s day, and so, everyone had cancelled their plans as soon as the case came in. The case had ended abruptly, however when the unsub turned _herself_ in. She had been posing as a nurse in various local hospitals and stealing and murdering newborns as a way to cope with the stillbirth of her own child. You had narrowed down her identity fairly quickly, but she had disappeared; none of you were able to track her down.

Obviously, you were all grateful that she still had enough of a good conscience to turn herself in, but on the plane ride back, everyone had been irritated at having cancelled plans they still could have made. Derek had cancelled on Savannah the second the case came in, not wanting her to wait for something that might not happen, so she had gone home for the holidays. JJ had told Will to take the boys up to Pennsylvania to celebrate with her parents. And Hotch had Jessica watching Jack, who, according to Jessica, was more than happy to celebrate with his cousins.

Watching them all lament over not being with their families this holiday made you wonder what it would be like to miss someone who could miss you back, and then, unintentionally, your eyes had flitted over to Reid, passed out on the jet’s bench, his knees tucked up so that his legs would fit and using his blazer as a blanket.

Then, you had wondered if Reid had any plans he was missing out on. If he maybe was going to visit his mom, wherever she was now, or if he was going to spend it by himself.

“Y/N?” Rossi’s voice pulled you back from your thoughts.

You looked up and found the entire team staring at you, waiting for an answer. By the looks on their faces, you assumed that they were all planning on heading to Rossi’s to ring in the New Year. The words “no, sorry” were poised instinctually on your tongue, but what came out instead was, “Sure, I didn’t have plans anyway.”

So you ended up on the metro to Rossi’s and were now standing in his kitchen, smiling and _laughing_ on New Year’s Eve for the first time in over a decade, draining a champagne flute with your arm twined around Garcia’s.

If your fresh-out-of-the-academy-self could see you now, she’d be shocked. Hell, if even yourself from just three months ago could see you now, she’d be shocked.

You _now_ were shocked.

In that split second before voicing your decision, you saw two possible versions of yourself: a tortured woman sitting alone among ghosts, and a successful agent celebrating among friends.

You had decided that you didn’t want to be the former anymore. 

Or, at the very least, you didn’t want to hurt others in the process of being that woman. The look on your friends’ faces, your newfound _family’s_ faces, as you laughed and joked and celebrated with them was worth the guilt that forever lingered in your heart. The fact that Maryanne and Boucher were fully in control of the operation now was becoming more and more palatable. And though you hated the fact that you felt like a burden of sorts had been lifted from you, though you felt infinitely selfish for feeling that way, you were also relieved to be able to breathe.

You knew that such a mindset wasn’t so easily swayed like this, and you knew that you would vacillate between states of acceptance, but at least for tonight, you were present, you were happy, and you felt alive.

You had spent so long forcing yourself to just barely _survive_ as a way to ease your own guilt that you had forgotten what it was to try and _live_ . Tonight felt like a good start towards relearning. It felt like a step towards becoming a _person_ again, not just a human.

Maybe New Year’s really _could_ reset a few things for you this time around.

In the midst of your revelry, Rossi drew the attention of the team to him by standing from his seat and clinking a tiny metal fork against his champagne flute. The laughter died down; the banter stopped.

Rossi shared a look with Hotch, passing an easy smile to his longtime friend, before looking back out at the rest of you. “I want to say a few things before it gets any closer to midnight,” he began. 

You stole a glance at your watch: 11:43pm. How did the hour pass so quickly?

Rossi continued, “I know this is far from any of our ideal evenings. Believe me; I get enough of you daily as it is.” A round of chuckles from the crowd. “But there’s an Italian superstition that the first person you see in the new year will either bring you good or bad luck, so you want to be surrounded by friends and family when the year changes.” Rossi raised his champagne flute in a toast. “I’m lucky to be surrounded by the best damn family I could ask for.”

“If we’re toasting,” Hotch said, also standing from his chair, “then I have a few words I’d like to share as well.”

And so it went on, each member of the team sharing sappy sentiments with one another, about the family they had within the group, about the memories they’d shared, about what they wanted to bring into the new year.

And when it was your turn, you paused. This was all so new to you; what could you say that hadn’t already been said?

And then you caught Spencer’s eye, and suddenly, with a small smile on your face, you breathed a laugh and said, “You know, stupid fact about me, but I love poetry.” Your eyes flitted from face to face, and when you found nothing but warmth radiating off of each member, you continued, “My favorite poet is Emily Dickinson. And, funnily enough, she’s what spurred me to finally join the FBI.”

“Really?” Prentiss asked. There was no judgement in her tone—just mild confusion.

You nodded and looked down at the drink in your hand. “Yeah. I mean, I had… other reasons—” An understatement “—but she has one poem that really stuck with me. It’s one of her more famous ones, but the opening lines are ‘if I can stop one heart from breaking, I shall not live in vain.’” A soft, sad smile lifted to your face as you recited the line. 

The poignancy in your expression was lost on the rest of the group. As you spoke, it dawned on you that perhaps Boucher was right in calling your operation an “obsession.” Somehow, in the midst of everything, you had lost that simple message that spurred you on this path: the message of a woman who wanted to leave the world better than she found it. Who wanted to leave _people_ better off than when she met them. Who just wanted to help save others because she could not save the people she loved.

You’d been unable to recognize yourself for so long that you didn’t quite know who you were anymore. But renewing yourself, _redefining_ yourself, didn’t seem so frightening anymore among your peers, your friends, your _family_.

So you continued, “And that’s at the core of what we do, right? If we can save just one person, even if it’s just one, then we still did something right.” When you looked back around the room again, you found Hotch smiling fondly at you and Garcia, ever the drama queen, dabbing a tissue at the corners of her eyes. You cleared your throat and raised your glass. “So, uh, here’s to stopping more broken hearts this year than the last.”

The team raised their glasses with you.

“Hear, hear,” Spencer added quietly, and you smiled at him.

And then the moment shattered when JJ stood, glancing down at her phone screen, and asked, “Dave, can we turn on the New York special? The boys are watching it and want to make sure we see the year change all together. Henry _loves_ the ball drop.”

Rossi grinned. “I can think of no better way to end the evening.”

But while the rest of the team all shuffled into Rossi’s living room, you stayed by the kitchen island, your feet frozen to the hardwood floors.

Spencer lingered by the doorway as everyone disappeared down the hall. “Are you coming?” he asked.

You gave him a tight smile. “Yeah, I’ll be there a few. Save a seat for me.”

He looked like he might press for more information, his brows furrowing slightly in confusion, but then he just nodded and headed after the rest of them.

You looked back down at your watch: 11:55pm. You just had to hope that they wouldn’t notice your absence for five minutes.

You _wanted_ to be able to watch the ball drop with them. You wanted to be able to watch people in the streets cheer and celebrate something as simple as the passing of time. But you couldn’t. Not yet.

And then you heard the television turn on, the channel change, and the familiar sounds of the New Year’s special. Your breath hitched as you heard the host commentate on the festivities, announcing that there was but _five_ minutes left until you left this year and entered the next.

So instead of joining them, you left your champagne flute on the kitchen island, your face still flushed and a little warm from the drink coursing through your veins, and turned to Rossi’s patio door. You walked out into his backyard, and through the open door, you could _still_ hear the faint sounds of the television, of the laughter of your peers.

And as you tilted your head back to the sky, taking a shaky breath, you wondered when it would finally stop—this pain, this guilt, this darkness that festered deep within you. You knew that time would never heal this wound (and that it was a fool’s dream to ever believe it could), but eventually, _something_ in you had to give, right? Eventually, you would have to learn to exist alongside it, right?

Your phone vibrating in your back pocket drew you from your thoughts, and you squeezed your eyes shut tight, a burning irritation slicing through your chest. When you slid it out of your pocket and looked at the number—the _same_ Manhattan number that had been calling you earlier—you had to bite back a shout of frustration. It was three minutes to midnight and they were _still_ calling?

And maybe it was the mild inebriation from the champagne and the emotions that this holiday drudged up for you, but you found that you couldn’t care about propriety or professionalism when you answered the phone. You were _done_.

“Hi! This is SSA Y/N Y/L/N,” you grit out in a deceptively saccharine tone, “and I am _not interested_ in transferring to the New York City division. Kindly tell your superiors, or Director Boucher, or whoever the _fuck_ keeps telling you to bother me, to go fuck themselves. Thanks!”

But before you could hang up, you heard a voice that knocked the breath from your lungs. “ _I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else_ ,” it said.

You’d never forget that voice even if you tried. And you _had_ tried.

So you froze, silent for a few passing moments, before quietly asking in a shaky voice, “Alexander?”

“ _Hello, Y/N._ ”

You took a deep breath, a shiver wracking your body. “How did you get my number?” 

“ _Samuel gave it to me_.”

You were going to kill Boucher. As soon as you could stop your hands from trembling, you were going to kill him. He had no business, _none_ , trying to insert himself into your life like this, regardless of how much he had tried to make himself into a surrogate parent.

You hated the waver in your voice as you asked, “Why are you calling me now?”

It was his turn to be quiet. If you closed your eyes, you knew you would still be able to see the exact expression on his face: pensive, blue eyes pointed up in thought, and jaw set. You could imagine him raking a hand through his sandy brown hair, and you wondered if he still wore it long, much to Victor’s eternal disapproval. You hated the fact that you hoped he did; he looked nice with longer hair.

Then he said, “ _Am I not allowed to miss you from time-to-time? We were_ engaged _, Y/N, unless you’ve forgotten that._ ” His voice was quiet, familiar, but no less bitter as he referenced your engagement.

You shut your eyes tightly. Of course you hadn’t forgotten; you just wished you could.

Immediately, your senses were assaulted with the memory of blinding lights, of the sterile smell of a hospital, of lies, of excuses, of— 

“Don’t call me again,” you whispered, barely hearing his quiet “ _Y/N, wait_ ” before you ended the call.

You stared at the screen, waiting for his number to pop up again, but when it didn’t, you shoved your phone back into your pocket and dragged your hands down your face. From inside the house, you could hear the countdown begin.

_59…_

_58…_

Tears pricked the backs of your eyes, and your breath quickened while you took a staggering step forward in Rossi’s backyard. Your heart twisted in your chest, your world spinning around you as the air grew thinner and thinner. You had done so well blocking out that time in your life—the part of your story that you shared with no one. But hearing Alexander’s voice—a voice that made your blood run cold just as much as it made your heart warm for the nostalgia of his touch—dragged you back into the all-consuming funereal darkness. 

What a fool you were to think that you could even try to endeavor to reshape yourself. You were only ever going to be what you were, what you’d _always_ been: cowardly, weak, and _alone_.

You would only ever be _alone_. That was simply how you had to be.

But as you gasped and bent over at the waist, your hands resting on your knees as you desperately tried take in enough oxygen just to _think_ for a second, you heard a voice from behind: “Y/N, you’re going to miss the—”

You shot back up and turned around, locking eyes with Spencer standing on the patio. He started when he saw the expression on your face. You weren’t sure what you looked like, but something between pitiful and insane seemed likely.

_45…_

_44…_

“—countdown…” he finished.

_42…_

_41…_

You took a deep shaky breath, wiping at your eyes with the back of your hand. “Um,” you began, your voice wavering, “it’s okay. I’m just… I just… it’s…”

Silence. You couldn’t even form the words for an excuse. For a lie.

_38…_

_37…_

“What’s wrong?” he asked quietly, his hands in his pockets. He took one step towards you, onto the grass, but maintained his distance. You didn’t blame him; the last time you’d been in such a state, you’d lashed out like a caged animal.

But this time, you didn’t feel caged so much as you felt lost—escaped from your own prison but without a place to go.

And when you thought about how alone you really were, how alone you were in comparison to the people inside Rossi’s house, who could love and cherish each other and the people in their lives without reservation, a sob bubbled out of your throat. You clapped a hand over your mouth as if you could stop the torrent of emotion bursting from your body.

You had just spent so long in that cage that you’d forgotten that the outside wasn’t much better, that there was a certain comfort in being trapped that was almost appealing compared to the vast world. At least in the cage, loneliness was your reality instead of something you felt you needed in order to survive. Something you deserved.

And you were terrified by how much you _wished_ it were otherwise. By how much you wished you had a home to return to.

But then, when you looked back at Spencer, his face open and eyebrows knit with worry, you didn’t feel that familiar anger that accompanied others’ concern for you. You didn’t feel the all-consuming need to shove him away when he tried to get closer. You didn’t feel the need to run like you thought you would.

Because, now, when you looked at Spencer, you saw a place to go. You saw open arms, warmth, shelter from the storm that raged inside you. Every time he looked at you like you were something better than you were, every time he _kissed_ you like you deserved more than you did, every time he wrapped his arms around you like you were something precious he had discovered, you felt like you had finally found a home after years of travel.

And even if you knew that you couldn’t stay, you also couldn’t stand to walk away. Not tonight. 

Just for one night, you could stay in his warmth. Just one night.

_20…_

_19…_

“Reid?” you said, tears running down your cheeks. A cold wind blew by and made you shiver.

“Yes?” he asked. He took a hesitant step towards you, and when you stood your ground, he took another.

You took a shaky breath.

_15…_

_14…_

“Rossi said that the first person you see in the new year either brings you good or bad luck. Which are you?” you asked, your breath hitching. “Because I just really, _really_ need something good.”

You knew that Spencer didn’t believe in luck, nor was he a superstitious person, but after studying you for a moment, Spencer quietly said, “I like to think I’d be good luck.”

And there it was again—that look in his eyes that only ever came up when his eyes were trained on you. Even while weeping without explanation, even while spouting incoherencies, they never grew hard with judgement nor anger. Frustration, maybe, and concern, always but never anger. And now, he was looking at you just like he had after Garcia’s—like you were the key to all the world’s treasures.

You thought you could be perfectly content to live and die in that gaze. You _wanted_ to live and die in that gaze.

But more than anything, you just wanted him to hold you, to tell you that everything would be alright even when it was just as terrible as it had always been, to quell the beast that raged on and on within you just by existing beside you. 

So you asked, “You promise?”

_5…_

_4…_

He nodded and took another step forward. “Yeah.”

_3…_

_2…_

_1…_

“Good,” you whispered.

The sound of celebration, of glasses clinking against each other, of cheering from inside the house didn’t register with you as you closed the rest of the distance between you and Spencer, threw your arms around his neck, and kissed him. You felt an ache in your torso as you stretched into the position, still bruised from when you’d been shot, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care or readjust. 

Spencer did not hesitate to wrap his arms around your waist, pulling you close to him and kissing you back.

You knew that this would have consequences, that this extra _thing_ that had suddenly grown between you was not viable, but for tonight, you could pretend like it was. You _needed_ to, otherwise you would be swimming in a darkness you still could not navigate after all these years. 

Otherwise, you would sink alongside your demons.

So you poured out all that you could not say aloud to Spencer, kissing him like you were drowning and he was oxygen. You let him in on that darkness, on that story that would never be told, like you could warn him of all that lurked beneath the surface of your skin. You kissed him like he was your lifeline, and in many ways that you didn’t quite understand yet, he was.

You just gave him _everything_ —all without words. There was no need.

And Spencer took it all without hesitation, lifting a hand and curling his fingers into your hair. He inhaled you, meeting each kiss with the same fervor, the same desperation.

This was a kiss unlike any you had shared previously. This was that _more_ —the _more_ you had tried so desperately to stifle. And when you grew shy over the fact that this kiss was indicative of that, when you tried to pull away out of instinct, Spencer tightened his grip on you and kissed you deeper. 

And even though you knew that in the morning all of this would dissipate, you just wanted to pretend like you could truly have _more_ under the guise of this night.

Finally, you pulled away, panting, and Spencer pressed his forehead against yours. Your eyes were closed, but you could feel his breath fanning out against your face.

“Can you come over tonight?” you whispered to him.

“Yes,” he breathed. “Yes.”

And when Spencer finally extracted himself from you, he lifted a hand to cradle your face. His thumb swiped across your cheek, catching a stray tear that had lingered there, and then he leaned down to kiss where the tear had been.

For once, you let yourself acknowledge the way his actions filled your heart. You let yourself be comforted by him without shame or fear.

The two of you returned to the interior of the house, helped clean up a bit with the rest of the team, and then feigned fatigue from the case when the team asked why you were leaving so soon.

You bid the team a happy New Year and ordered an Uber for the two of you. The drive to your apartment was swift, and when you arrived, you both barely made it over the threshold of your door before your hands were on each other again.

The air was electric with desire, and you were certain that the world outside had simply stopped moving. Time itself slowed. All other responsibilities, concerns, worries, and fears ceased to exist. There were no dynamics, no power over the other, no attempt to adopt a facade. Your bedroom personas had been cast aside for the evening. 

There was just you and Spencer and this moment shared between you. It was a raw vulnerability that you had never allowed yourself to explore, but you were not afraid as Spencer kissed you, and kissed you, and kissed you—his touch but a gentle reassurance of safety. 

He dropped his go bag by the door, his hands flying to your hips just as yours found their way to his face, and began to back you up towards your bedroom. 

Once there, his hands slid up your torso underneath the silk of your blouse and roamed your skin before he tugged it above your head, throwing it to an unknown location in the room and leaving you in your bra. You began unbuttoning his shirt, never breaking your kiss, as his hands then slid down to your ass, pulling you hard against him again. You gasped as you felt the bulge in his pants press against your front.

Once his shirt had fluttered to the ground, your hands roved over the toned plains of his body before one of them reached down to palm him through his pants. He groaned into your mouth, his hips bucking forward into your hand.

And then he continued backing you up until the backs of your legs hit your mattress, and his arms, still wrapped around your torso, gently laid you back with your legs still dangling off the end. He trailed kisses down your jaw, your neck, down between the valley of your breasts as his hands massaged them both, drawing a quiet moan from you, before continuing his journey down to your naval. Then, still kissing and dragging his tongue across your abdomen, he unbuttoned your pants and pulled them all the way off, panties included.

Spencer got down on his knees, put your thighs on both of his shoulders, and licked a stripe up your folds to your clit. Your hands flew to his hair, your back arching as a long moan lifted from your chest and echoed through the room. 

He picked up a relentless pace, his eyes fluttering shut as he licked and sucked around your clit. Your hips bucked in response, grinding against his tongue, and he wrapped his arms around your thighs to keep you in place.

His name was both a plea and a prayer on your tongue, and when you felt that familiar knot growing in your abdomen, when you felt it nearing its breaking point and your legs began trembling, you whispered, “Please don’t stop.”

So he didn’t, and when your orgasm hit you, and your back arched off of the mattress again, your legs squeezing around his head, he continued his assail on your clit. He didn’t let up, even when you tugged on his hair and wiggled your hips to try and indicate how sensitive your clit was. But he continued on, only pulling you closer to him, until you came on his tongue again, this time harder than the last, your moans and pants louder than the last.

Your body felt like it was curling in on itself as he wrenched gasp after moan from your lips. And even though you felt like you might split in two from the sensitivity, he continued flicking his tongue against your clit until you begged, “ _Reid_!”

That seemed to break his spell, and he lifted his head from between your legs. In the dim lighting, you could see the evidence of your pleasure dripping from his lips and chin. He stared at you, blinking, before whispering back, “Yes?”

And you, still gulping down air, forced yourself to a seated position, letting your legs fall from his shoulders and wincing as the movement caused friction on your oversensitive clit, and you ran your fingers through his hair. Spencer’s eyes fluttered shut as he leaned into your touch.

You kissed him gently this time, no longer spurred by a desperation to feel him, to be consumed by him, and you tasted yourself on his lips. Here he was, kneeling before you, ready and willing to give himself up completely to you just as you were to him. So when you pulled away, your hands fell to his shoulders, and you nudged him to stand.

He did, slowly, and stood still with his hands threading through your hair as you undid his belt and unzipped his pants. He quickly shed them, leaving him standing completely naked, and you leaned forward to take his cock in your mouth.

You took him slowly, and he didn’t seem inclined to rush you, even as a quiet groan fell from his lips and his fingers tightened in your hair. You swirled your tongue around the head, bobbing down inch by inch until you felt him hit the back of your throat. You began sucking him off, but he quickly stopped you by taking a step back.

When you looked up, eyes wide and searching his face for something wrong, he shook his head. “What?” you asked.

He didn’t answer verbally, but instead, cradled your face between his hands and kissed you deeply. This was unlike the kisses from earlier, which were an urgent frenzy for one another. Instead, this was slow, his tongue sweeping across your bottom lip, his lips melding perfectly with yours. He kissed you delicately, reverently, as if trying to tell _you_ something this time: that you were deserving of care, of comfort, of this _more_.

You couldn’t explain to him why he was incorrect, but even if you didn’t believe it, you could have cried over the sentiment.

So you gently pulled him towards you again, and he clambered onto the mattress, backing you up until your head was nestled in your pillows. He held himself up with one arm and used the other to bring a hand to your face again. Spencer brushed a piece of hair from your cheek, and he kissed you again as he slowly slid into you.

You moaned quietly into the kiss, hooking your leg around his hip as he began to take up a slow pace. He rolled his hips into you as his hand slid into your hair, and when you pulled away from his kiss to gasp as he hit _that_ particular spot within you, he buried his face into the crook of your neck, latched his lips onto your skin, and began picking up the speed.

Eventually, the room was filled with the sounds of skin against skin, of panting, of sloppy kisses and whines of pleasure. This wasn’t just fucking anymore; this was an exploration of whatever had grown between you. You were a song sung from the beginning of time—a joyous harmony that echoed through the years. 

In this moment, you and him were infinite. 

And when you felt yourself reaching the edge of that precipice again, you gasped, “Reid, I…” You were cut off by another moan, your face scrunching up with it. You were close.

“What is it?” he breathed as he lifted his head from your neck and stared down at you. His voice was tight with pleasure.

You lifted your head from the pillow and pressed your forehead against his. “I want you to cum with me,” you said, your breath hitching.

He just nodded and took your lips with his again, picking up his pace and thrusting faster and deeper into you. The knot in your abdomen grew, and grew, and grew, until it burst yet again, and your head fell back against the pillows, your body arching into Spencer. The second your walls began clenching around him, his hips stuttered, a loud groan echoing through the room as he spilled himself into you.

The two of you lied there for a few moments, Spencer still inside you, trying to catch your breaths. And then he pulled out with one final groan and fell onto the mattress beside you.

You rolled over on your side and stared at him.

He stared back.

And then he smiled gently, reaching across to gently take your hand with his. He brought your hand up to his mouth and brushed his lips across your knuckles. You thought your heart would burst at the sight.

Then, the smile faded, and Spencer cast a quick glance over his shoulder to the door. “I, um…” he whispered, as if speaking any louder would shatter the illusion of whatever you had created in this room together, “It’s late, so I should leave, right?”

You didn’t say anything as he slowly sat himself up. Immediately, you were assaulted by the chill of his absence. But even more, you were immediately confronted with the fear of being left alone again. Between the call and the holiday, you didn’t want to be left to wallow, to drown in yourself. And despite everything, despite the fact that you _knew_ that the smart thing was to let him get his clothes back on and leave your apartment, you found yourself sitting up abruptly and reaching out before he could even stand from your bed.

You grabbed his bicep. “Reid, wait.”

He froze, turning back towards you and eyes widening slightly in surprise. “What?” he asked quietly.

Your heart hammered in your chest, and you could feel your cheeks warming. “Can you stay?”

Spencer raised his brows. He was quiet for a few moments, and just when you were about to recant your statement and tell him to leave, he whispered, “Okay.” He looked over his shoulder again. “I can set up the couch myself if you jus—”

“No,” you interrupted, swallowing. “I mean…” The spell between you had been broken. The world continued moving. Reality set in. And the emotions that had overtaken you while in Rossi’s backyard were slowly seeping back into your body. “Can you stay _here_ , with me? I just…” Your voice dipped to a husk whisper edged with distress. “I just really don’t want to be alone tonight.”

Realization crossed his face. His eyes flitted from you, to the mattress below you, and then back to your eyes. “Yes,” he said finally, “if that’s what you want.”

You gave him a tight smile. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” he answered, and then he leaned towards you again and brushed his lips against yours, tilting his head to the side and letting his eyes flutter shut.

Maybe it was selfish of you to break the rules of your arrangement, to ask this of him. There was a reason you had put this specific rule in place, after all, a reason why you wanted to avoid _anything_ that might make your arrangement with Spencer feel like it was more than it was. But there already was _more_ between you two, and though you would not bring it up, nor would you put a name to it, you could still acknowledge its presence.

All would be back to normal in the morning anyway, and you and Spencer would return to what you were and would always be: friends, colleagues, and coworkers. But tonight, you could indulge, and by the way he kissed you, by the way he held your face to his with a feather-light hand on your jaw, you had a feeling that he was inclined to do the same.

So when you could finally stand to separate from one another, you directed him to the bathroom down the hall so he could wash up and get ready for bed while you did the same in the master bath. 

And when he returned to your bedroom, clad in his flannel pajama pants and a white cotton t-shirt, you had already slid underneath your sheets and comforter. Spencer stood by the side of your bed after turning out the lights, staring at you, like he was unsure of how to proceed. There was a notch between his brows, and his head was tilted to the side.

You flipped the covers back over and gestured for him to join you with an outstretched hand, which he gingerly took as he lowered himself down into your bed.

And for the second time that night, the two of you lied on your sides and stared at each other. He was close enough that you could feel the heat from his body radiating towards you from underneath the comforter, calling to you like a siren would a sailor.

You had already broken one rule. What was one other?

Slowly, you inched towards him until your head was tucked under his chin, and you snaked an arm around his waist, shutting your eyes. You had never derived comfort from physical affection like most people did. But Spencer’s presence always surprised you in ways you didn’t understand.

All you wanted was for him to hold you.

And you were self-aware enough to know what that could mean for you, what this thing that had grown between you implied. Your sense of self-preservation was just stronger, and so, banished that thought from your mind.

Spencer initially tensed up. You couldn’t blame him; you weren’t exactly acting like you usually did tonight. But he quickly wrapped his arm around you, too, pulling you close to him. He nuzzled his face into your hair, breathing a quiet sigh before planting a kiss to the top of your head.

“Goodnight, Spencer,” you said quietly into the fabric of his shirt.

He didn’t respond for a few moments, and then, so quiet you could barely hear him, he whispered, “Goodnight.”

And for the first time in fifteen years, you embraced sleep as it claimed you, lulled into its gentleness by the steady beating of Spencer’s heart and the quiet sounds of his breathing.

***

Spencer Reid didn’t like to curse. 

The second edition of the Oxford English Dictionary listed that there were 171,476 words in current use. (This number, of course, excluded the approximately 828,524 that had fallen into obscurity with time by the general public). Including the fact that Spencer also spoke Latin, Korean, and Russian fluently, he could understand practically every Germanic and Romantic language purely based on his knowledge of linguistic theory.

Therefore, there was rarely a need for Spencer to speak obscenities when he had myriad better options. The general cultural lexicon that his peers embraced never appealed to him in the same ways, not when other languages often provided better descriptors for distress than any English swear word ever could.

So when Spencer said that he was in _deep shit_ , he really meant it.

You had fallen asleep ages ago, and Spencer had been frozen in the same position that he started in. It was a wonder how he hadn’t woken you up yet; he could hear his heart so clearly _hammering_ in his chest, the chest that _you_ were snuggled into.

He closed his eyes again and swallowed thickly.

This was not supposed to happen. None of this was supposed to happen, from the arrangement you’d struck up together to the fact that he, despite all of his best efforts, could no longer think of you as his friend.

He realized this after Garcia’s Christmas party, after receiving a gift that made him want to both laugh and cry with happiness, and after kissing you so tenderly he thought his heart might burst.

And then reality struck him like lightning when you’d called him your friend.

And it had hurt _so god damned much_ that he’d finally had to confront the truth he’d known for a while now. The truth that simultaneously terrified and thrilled him. The truth he still couldn’t officially name, not even in his head, for fear that it would tear him apart.

He never thought this was in the cards for him. Maeve was the only person who really ever understood him, the only person that he had connected with on a rare intellectual level. But, retrospectively, though he knew that what he felt for her was just as legitimate as what he felt for you, Maeve was also but an enigma to him. He’d never _really_ know if things could have worked out between the two of them. For a long time, that left a gaping hole within him.

And then, on a random Wednesday morning nearly two and a half years ago, he spotted you standing in Hotch’s office. 

And when you were assigned to create geographical profiles with him, and he’d seen your brain operate like a computer with the numbers and logic required of the task, he was intrigued.

And when he would spout his facts and go on tangents, and the rest of the team would dismiss him with a wave of their hands, you would always smile and respond with a knowledge and comprehension that shocked him. He didn’t realize how nice it was to be listened to, to be _heard_ by a peer, to have his thoughts appreciated, before you walked into his life.

Back then, your smile never reached your eyes. It was tired, worn down, an imitation of the bright and wonderful thing that he knew it once was. But tonight, when he couldn’t tear his eyes off of you as you laughed along with the rest of them, there was a spark that had been put back into it, like something had soothed a long opened wound inside you.

And when you smiled, he smiled wider. When you laughed, his heart felt like it might leap from his chest. And when you cried, he knew he would tear the fabric of the universe itself apart if it meant finding whatever hurt you so badly.

And when he found you in Rossi’s backyard, eyes wide with a fear and a darkness that terrified him, all he wanted was to take whatever that pain was onto himself. Your eyes had been blown into voids, taking in everything and returning nothing but the promise of oblivion, and the tears that marred your beautiful face made his chest ache for the justice that the world owed you.

He knew that look; he’d seen it in countless victims in their cases. It was the look of someone on the verge of succumbing to an irreparable trauma. 

He didn’t know what the hell had happened to you in the _five minutes_ he’d left you, what had happened to you in the past to create such terror, but he _did_ know that his first instinct was to hold you close to him, to kiss your tears away, to promise that he would do everything in his power to keep you safe beside him.

And now, he was at least doing that first thing. A part of him didn’t even want to fall asleep; he wanted to stay awake the entire night, to burn every single sensation of this night into his memory.

Because he knew that in the morning, you would almost certainly retreat again.

How cruel the world was to make you fit so divinely in his arms when he couldn’t hold you like that until the end of time. When you didn’t _want him_ to do so.

He could have held the entire world in his arms, and it still would not have compared to the feeling of holding you. 

Spencer had always dreamed of what it would be like to meet someone like you, someone who matched him in every way on every level, who shared similar interests, who loved learning and literature and culture and art the way he did. 

Were he a lesser man, he would have thought you the Juliet to his Romeo. Romeo and Juliet, however infamous for their ill-fated love, were far from Shakespeare’s greatest couple, after all.

No, he had always dreamed of finding the Beatrice to his Benedick, of finding a woman who challenged him with wit and grace, who loved the people in her life with a terrifying ferocity, who would rattle the stars and tear apart mountains with the power she emitted. He dreamed of the witty banter, the push back, and the intellectual discourse exemplified best by the iconic couple from _Much Ado About Nothing_.

And at one point, Spencer thought he might have found that in you.

But now, he realized that he was not the Benedick to your Beatrice, but rather, he was the _Dante_ to your Beatrice.

It is rumored that the 14th century epic poet Dante Alighieri drew his inspiration for one of his greatest works _La Vita Nuova_ from a woman named Beatrice, whose true identity and relation to Dante has long since been shrouded in mystery. Beatrice appears in both _La Vita Nuova_ and in his best known work, _Divine Comedy_ , as a guide. Scholars had concluded that despite nothing more than a fleeting interaction when the two were children, Beatrice was the truest and greatest love of Dante’s life. And Dante, married to another woman, immortalized his love for her in his poetry, destined to never have her.

So, yes, you were still Beatrice: the brilliant woman, the beautiful woman, the strong outspoken woman. The type of woman about whom epic poets wrote their masterpieces.

But he would only ever be your Dante: a genius left to pine from afar with nothing but a memory of you to inspire him in the end. A genius fated to never have you.

And he wished to _god_ that he could have been Benedick instead. He wished to _god_ that you could have been Shakespearean lovers together instead.

But wishing would get him nothing. All he had was now, this moment, with you safe in his arms. Trusting him. 

And even if that was all he would ever get from you, Spencer decided that he would be okay with that. Because even if it was just for an evening, he could pretend that whatever delicate _thing_ had grown between you two could blossom into something _more_.

Just for an evening, he could pretend that you perhaps loved him, too.

The illusion, however, was shattered when your phone began vibrating on your nightstand.

You took a sharp intake of breath and stirred, and Spencer, not wanting you to think he’d been watching you sleep (even though that _was_ kind of what he’d been doing) closed his eyes. You slowly extracted yourself from him before reaching out to the nightstand and declining the call. Then, he felt the mattress shift, like you’d swung your legs down, and then a pause.

And then he felt a hand on his face gently brushing a lock of hair from his forehead.

And then he felt your soft lips brush against his cheek.

Spencer thought his heart might have stopped at the gesture.

Perhaps his case wasn’t as hopeless as he’d thought.

But then you stood from the mattress, and he heard you pad across the room and open the door. When he finally opened his eyes again, he could see a crack in the door, and within seconds, heard your quiet whispers filtering into the room.

“Why the fuck are you calling me at 3am, Preston?”

Preston? As in Special Agent Christopher Preston? Spencer was not proud of the jealousy that bubbled in his gut.

You continued, “What? Slow dow— _Pres_ , slow down. What do you need?”

Silence.

“I, uh, I can try to track Maryanne, if that’ll make you feel better… are you sure?” A shorter pause. “I’ll use the software I made for Anti-Trafficking. Yeah. Yeah. I’m on it now.” 

And then he heard you walk further down the hallway, rifle through something in the main room, and then walk back, keys jingling quietly as you unlocked a door and disappeared behind it.

Spencer sat up.

You yourself were somewhat of a mystery to him. At some point, he had tried to stop digging into your life because it got him _nowhere_ , but that what he’d just heard was… alarming.

Curiouser and curiouser.

Who were you, _really_?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi! I have been waiting to write this chapter since I first started plotting everything out :) I had a great time writing it, so I hope you enjoyed this one!!


	17. To Pity Those That Know Her Not

Spencer didn’t dream often. It was mostly because he just didn’t sleep enough for his REM sleep cycle to produce a vivid enough dream to warrant remembrance. But when he _did_ remember his dreams, they were nightmares more often than not, and it was always the same scenario. Spencer would “wake up” in a dark void, trapped in a slowly shrinking invisible box that suffocated him, without enough oxygen to even try and shout for help. Sometimes, if his mind was feeling especially cruel, he could hear yelling in the distance. They varied between the sound of his mother shouting at nothing during one of her episodes when he was a child, and his teammates or loved ones calling out to him for help.

At this point, Spencer had become so used to his recurring hell that it didn’t faze him as much as it used to when he awoke.

But when he woke up in your apartment, he thought he might have woken up into a dream instead.

He’d never been here in the morning. Actually, he hadn’t been here since you were ill. 

If this was your safe haven, if this was the place you occupied most, he never wanted to leave. As long as it meant being beside you, he’d never go outside again.

Your bedroom door was still cracked open, and your side of the bed was cool. From where he was, he could see condensation coating the walls of your master bathroom, and filtering in from down the hall, he smelled fresh coffee and heard the sounds of you delicately humming a familiar melody.

 _Chopin’s Nocturne opus 9 no. 2 in E flat_ , he immediately placed.

He didn’t think it was possible for him to be more attracted to you than he already was.

He was wrong.

Spencer rubbed his eye and then looked at his wrist watch: 7:57am. He needed to start moving if he wanted to be on time.

But even though he knew that the rational thing would be to just hop into your shower immediately and get ready for the day. In fact, the idea of disrupting his typical morning routine by _not_ doing so made Spencer’s gut twist in displeasure. But he couldn’t ignore the pull he felt towards your main room, towards your voice, towards you.

So Spencer slowly stood from your bed and padded across your room and down your hall, where he found walking around your kitchen. Your back was to him as you crossed the space to your unnecessarily sophisticated coffee-espresso machine, which was brewing a small pot of coffee on one side, and two shots of espresso on the other. You had wireless earbuds shoved into your ears, so you didn’t notice his presence. Your hair was still wet from your shower, and you were half dressed in your outfit for the day: slim fitting black slacks and a white camisole. You hadn’t turned on any of the lights, illuminated by nothing but the sunlight filtering in through the windows.

Between the glow of sun around you, the smell of freshly brewed coffee, and the lovely sound of your humming, Spencer was certain that he actually _was_ dreaming. No one was this ethereal before 8am on New Year’s Day. No one.

Then you turned around and spotted him. You jumped a bit, ripping your earbuds from your ears as you gasped in surprise.

Everything felt so domestic that he thought his heart might give out.

“Hi, good morning,” you said.

He pressed his lips together in a smile. “Good morning.”

And then the two of you stared at each other.

He wanted to ask what had happened to you the previous night—or, more specifically, what had happened to you when you went to Rossi’s backyard, why you were crying, and why you looked like you were suffocating in your own mind. He wanted to ask what your mysterious 3am phone call with Preston was about. He wanted to ask if you were just _okay_.

But then you turned around to grab a travel mug from your cabinet while asking, “Espresso or coffee?” Then you paused. “Or I could make you tea if you’d rather have that. We just have to leave here by 8:30 at the latest to be on time. I haven’t gone grocery shopping in awhile, so if you want something to eat, we’ll have to grab something on the way. I don’t have anything here.”

“Coffee is fine,” Spencer said, biting down his questions, and you pressed two buttons on the machine before reaching for the pot.

You poured a mug for him, placing it on the kitchen island, and then grabbed another travel mug which you filled with the rest of the pot _and_ both shots of espresso. Spencer finally approached the kitchen with raised brows, looking between you, the mug in your hands, and the bag of dark roast Arabica coffee beans sitting on the counter beside your laptop, open to your email.

Had you even gone back to sleep?

“What?” you asked.

“That’s just… a lot of caffeine. You know, caffeine addiction and related caffeine issues are actually listed in the DSM-5, now. One is called Caffeine Intoxication—to describe the unpleasant physical and mental effects that accompany _truly_ excessive caffeine consumption. There’s also Caffeine Use Disorder, but that one’s still technically under study and revision.”

You breathed a laugh before you took a sip of your drink. “I’m just tired.”

And he could tell. Up close, he could see the bags under your eyes (accompanied by dark circles _barely_ covered by a swipe of concealer) and your slightly slumped shoulders. Your face still held an echo of the haunted gleam from the previous night.

Because he couldn’t help himself, Spencer reached out and cupped the side of your face with his hand, swiping a thumb across your cheekbone.

And for one _single_ second, you leaned into his touch. And in that single second of silent eye contact, he saw your eyes flare ever so slightly and your pupils dilate.

He smiled.

And then, like someone had snapped their fingers to break you from a spell, you turned away and walked over to the fridge. Spencer felt a pang in his heart as you cleared your throat and opened the fridge door, grabbing a carton of milk. “You should get ready. You can use anything in my bathroom if you want to shower. The travel mug will keep your coffee hot.”

“Yeah,” he said, but he didn’t move.

You kept your eyes on the carton, turning it over in your hands and very obviously pretending to read the nutritional facts. He waited to see how long you would keep it up.

The two of you stayed like that—him staring at you, you pretending to read the label—for forty-three seconds before you sighed. You finally turned back to him and said, “I don’t want to talk about it, Reid.”

 _Reid_. 

Despite an uncontrollable physiological response to attraction and (dare he be so hopeful to presume) _love_ , you were back to formalities. To distance. He just didn’t understand why. You _had_ to have some sort of feelings for him, too, right? So why couldn’t you embrace that? Why did you have to keep shutting him out _every time_ you connected a little bit more?

And though Spencer expected as much to happen this morning, that understanding didn’t ease the heartache as much as he would have hoped. He was going to press on, but then he noted the look in your face—the quiet desperation, the sadness, the _darkness_ creeping back in—and decided that putting you through what would clearly result in emotional turmoil at 8am was the last thing he wanted to do.

So he just nodded and pressed his lips together again. “That’s okay,” he lied. “I’ll, um, I’ll go shower. I won’t take long.”

Relief shone in your eyes at the fact that he dropped the subject, and he hated the fact that you felt like you couldn’t confide in him. 

But before he could walk away to shower, you spoke again, “But, um…” You trailed off, a blush warming your cheeks. “Thank you… for being here for me when I need someone. I appreciate you a lot.”

Well, that was better than “you’re a good friend.” He’d take it.

Spencer just nodded and said, “Of course,” before walking back to your bedroom. 

Spencer showered quickly, oddly delighted that he’d smell vaguely like you for the entire day after using your soap and shampoo, and got his things together before 8:25. He found you waiting by the door of the apartment, now wearing a silk blouse that was tucked into your slacks and black pumps. You wore an overcoat, your purse draped over your forearm, and you were scowling at your phone as you aggressively typed out a message.

When you noticed his presence, however, your facial expression simmered into forced neutrality, and you gave him a strained smile. “Ready?” you asked.

He just nodded, and the two of you headed down to the lobby, where you gave a surprisingly perky “Good morning!” to Thomas, who eyed Spencer warily. Your car was parked in an adjacent lot, and you arrived at the academy five minutes before you were expected.

When the elevator arrived at the BAU’s floor, though, you pressed the highest button and leaned back against the wall as Spencer stepped out.

He turned to face you before the doors closed. “You’re not coming?” he asked.

You shook your head. “I have a meeting with Director Boucher.”

His surprise at that fact aside, he couldn’t help but notice the way you spat the Director’s name, barely restrained hostility bubbling at your lips. The doors closed before he could inquire further, and he was left with his mouth hanging open as he stared in your wake.

His mind was racing with a multitude of new questions: why were you meeting with the Director? Why did you say his name like you _loathed_ the man? What had happened to create such animosity?

Spencer hadn’t had enough interactions with Director Boucher himself to really form an opinion. Director Boucher was a fairly polarizing figure, from what he’d heard, and most others that he knew of tended to dislike him on the whole. They found him condescending and arrogant—a product from obviously growing up in the upper echelons of society— but he didn’t think that was enough of a reason for you to seem so contentious.

What was your relationship with Director Boucher? 

Who _were_ you?

“You’ll catch flies like that, Reid,” Derek said as he walked by from Garcia’s office, files and reports in hand.

Spencer didn’t respond; he just closed his mouth and continued staring at the elevator doors, and Derek paused in the glass door frame that led into the bullpen.

After a few moments, Derek asked, “Reid, you good?”

Spencer finally tore his eyes away and turned to him. “Yeah, sorry. I’m just… thinking. Don’t worry about it.”

Derek shrugged, and he walked into the bullpen, heading towards his desk. Spencer knew that he should join him, that he should just try to clear his head and go about his work for the day. He was an agent; he didn’t exactly have the luxury of loafing around. But Derek had come from Garcia’s office.

Which meant that Garcia was already in.

Which meant…

Spencer’s legs started moving before he could stop them. He strode to Garcia’s office, opened the door, and then closed and locked it behind him. 

Garcia froze in the middle of taking her coat off and took him in. “Good morning?”

She sounded confused. Spencer couldn’t blame her. He was torn between rationality and his emotions—a rare happening for him, but no less frazzling. He could hear his heart pumping in his ears, and his mouth felt dry. He probably looked crazy.

He _knew_ that this wasn’t right, that he shouldn’t pry into your life. But his mind was reeling from all the mystery that shrouded you, and he couldn’t _stand_ not being able to even extrapolate his own conclusion. He literally just didn’t know enough about you to try and help you the best way he could.

And, besides, your file (sealed or not) was still in the FBI database. It wasn’t like he was the _only_ person with access to it. He was just a concerned agent checking on another agent.

“Garcia, I need your help,” he began, “but you have to keep it between us.”

She perked up. “Am I hearing a request to be a part of a… _secret mission_?”

“Uh, sort of.” Spencer cleared his throat and stepped further into the room, walking up beside Garcia to her monitors. “Did you… ever happen to actually… open Y/N’s sealed file?” Even as he said the words out loud, he wanted to take them back. It wasn’t his business. He should walk away now. But Spencer, more than anything else, _hated_ ambiguity. He hated not knowing, and the collected rational side of him wasn’t loud enough to silence his curiosity or his need to understand you just a little bit more.

Garcia stiffened, quietly wincing, “Yes?” Spencer couldn’t even get a word out before she steamrolled ahead. “And _before_ you lecture me about how I shouldn’t have and how it’s an invasion of privacy and ‘against regulation,’ know that I did it as a _concerned_ friend and _not out of my own curiosity_ . I barely looked; it was a _quick peruse_.”

“I’m not going to lecture you, Garcia. I want to know what’s in the file. I won’t say anything if you don’t.”

“I… well…” She looked between Spencer and her monitors and sighed. “Spencer, it’s a sealed file. Sealed files are sealed for a reason, and I shouldn’t have opened the _sealed file_ because it’s… _sealed_. For a reason.”

“Garcia, you already opened it.”

She threw her hands up. “ _Fine_! Nothing in there makes any sense, anyway.”

Spencer furrowed his brows as Garcia began typing. “What do you mean?”

“It’s just… _weird_. Everything about her file is weird. Stuff that should be in the normal file with the rest of her things were in the sealed file, like her education, a lot of childhood things, past residencies, occupations, IQ testing and a Mensa membership—”

His head snapped to Garcia. “She’s in Mensa?”

Garcia nodded. “Mhm. It looks like her parents made her a member when she was pretty young, and based on everything in here… she’s _really_ smart, Spencer.” 

_He_ could have told her that, but he said, “Garcia, context, _please_.”

Garcia sighed and rapidly typed on her keyboard before a scanned document popped up on the screen. There was a grainy black-and-white picture of you (god, you couldn’t have been more than four or five years old. Spencer tried to ignore his delight at seeing an old picture of you) in the top left corner. It was an IQ report, and there at the bottom, the number 167 was underlined.

He blinked. And then blinked again. And then leaned forward to stare at the screen a little more. 

Garcia kept talking. “And… that’s not all.” She shifted uncomfortably in her seat as she typed some more. “Uh, it looks like she was homeschooled until college—private tutors and lessons and things like that. A lot of summer college courses. Based on the rest of the stuff in here, she clearly grew up pretty well off. Old money Manhattan, you know? Makes sense. She was part of some fancy social club called ‘The Monet Society’ and did some charity work with them when she was young. But _then_ she graduated from Columbia at eighteen-years-old with a dual-degree in computer science and cognitive neuroscience—”

“Hold on—she told me she studied western literature in college,” he interrupted quietly.

She pulled up your academic transcript and pointed to the top, where several literature courses were listed. “Transfer credits. She took classes at NYU when she was younger before officially starting her Bachelor’s. But…” Garcia trailed off, pausing. After a few moments, she sighed and then typed a few more things. “Do you know what’s weirder?”

“What?” Spencer whispered.

“After college, it’s like she fell off the face of the earth. I mean, there’s _nothing_ in here from when she was eighteen until she joined the FBI. That’s a solid seven years of _nothing_ —no more schooling, or jobs, or official residencies—and then, all of a sudden, _bam_ —application and training results. She was in anti-trafficking, then ViCAP, and then…” Another form popped onto the screen. “She bypasses _all_ the necessary training for the BAU. I mean, _normal_ people who want to transfer have to go through two, maybe three years of training, but her transfer was signed off immediately by Director Boucher himself.”

Well, that at least offered some insight into your relationship with Director Boucher. Clearly, you were _acquainted_ , at the very least.

“I barely had to go through training,” he admitted quietly. And he knew why; “genius” can take anyone a _long_ way.

Garcia breathed a laugh. “Yeah, you and me _both_ , Einstein. But, like I said, I didn’t look _that_ much into her. It felt… wrong to try and pry into her ‘dark ages’. But I tried to track all the missing information just to see why it wasn’t here, and I found traces—barely, though, just _breadcrumbs_ —of someone _hacking_ into her file to delete them.”

Spencer paused, straightening up. “Do you think she…” 

“Think about it, Spencer: she’s a tech literate genius with a background in computer science. The idea that she would be able to hack into her own file to alter it isn’t crazy,” Garcia answered quietly. “I just don’t know what she’s trying to hide, and from whom.”

Spencer had to close his eyes, his mind reeling. He wasn’t sure what he expected to find, but he at least expected to find some _answers_ rather than gaining more questions about you. “Is there anything that _makes sense_?” he asked.

Garcia was quiet for a few minutes. “Well, when I just googled her, because… I needed something _not_ vaguely terrifying, and mysterious, and ‘I-feel-like-I’m-in-a-movie’-esque about her to think about, I found two articles that mention her. One of them was actually the _only_ thing I could find about her during the seven years of _nada_ , but…”

“But _what_ , Garcia?”

She sighed and pulled up the first one. It was an article written in a well regarded music magazine. The featured photo was of a teenage girl ( _you_ , he realized, his eyes widening) wearing a sophisticated red evening gown. Your hair was slicked back into a tight bun, and you were beaming. Your grin was contagious; you looked like you were on the verge of delighted laughter, and Spencer would have smiled along with you had he not felt an ache in his heart at the fact that he’d never seen you emit such joy anymore. You couldn’t have been more than fifteen or sixteen-years-old, clearly still untouched by whatever horror plagued you now. Standing next to you was an older boy with overgrown sandy-brown hair and bright blue eyes dressed in a tuxedo. He looked a bit older—maybe seventeen or eighteen—and sported a cool smirk. He had an arm around your waist, his hand perched delicately on the swell of your hip.

The caption below the photo read: _Y/N Y/L/N (left) and Alexander Marseille (right) after an impressive performance at The Monet Society’s Christmas Party at the Ritz Carlton._

The article went on to talk about the duet you and the boy (Alexander, Spencer supposed) had performed: a transcribed-for-piano collection of pieces from Tchaikovsky’s _Nutcracker Suite_. The article sang you both praises of talent and intellect, all within the realm of an upper-echelon New York City socialite scene.

So you came from money. A lot of it. That would explain the expensive apartment, the fancy car, and the Steinway and Sons piano you owned.

And you were a certified genius like he was. That would explain… a _lot_ , actually, now that Spencer thought about it. It was no wonder why he felt drawn to you like a moth would a flame, why his conversations with you were always charged with academic undertones, why he just _knew_ that you would enjoy his belated Christmas present to you.

He at least had _some_ context to add to his perception of you.

“What’s the other article about?” he asked.

Garcia puffed out her cheeks and blew out a breath. “Well, it’s actually more about this dude—” She pointed to the monitor at the picture of the young Alexander Marseille, “—apparently he’s the son of the guy who founded the social club she was in. They’re a big name in this…” She waved her palm around her monitor. “ _Weird_ wealthy New York socialite life. It’s like the most pretentious and _niche_ kind of fame there is. Anyway, so it seems like he and Y/N were engaged—”

“ _What_ .” Spencer didn’t mean to sound as shocked as he did, nor did he mean to be as loud as he was. But he couldn’t keep the question from _bursting_ from his lips just as he couldn’t stop his heart from dropping down to his stomach.

It was just… you had been _engaged_ ? _You_?

He could _barely_ get you to tell him anything _real_ about yourself, and you had been _engaged_ at one point?

As Garcia pulled up the second article, Spencer grabbed the extra rolling-chair in her office, plopping down with a sigh and running a hand through his hair. Every time he thought he was getting closer to figuring you out, he ended up a step behind from where he started.

But then the article filled the monitor. There was another photo of the two of you.

His heart cracked in two when he saw it—not because of the fact that a gaudy diamond ring was on display on your left ring finger (a gaudy diamond ring that he _knew_ you would have hated), but because the smile that had been on your younger self was nowhere in sight. He could see dark circles under your eyes, your face sunken and sullen with the tight-lipped smile you were _obviously_ forcing. You were still _so young_ —the date on article meant that you had to have been twenty-two—but that brilliant light that had shone in your eyes in the last picture had been completely extinguished. 

Again, he recognized that expression, that haunting gleam in your face. It was the expression of someone who had undergone irreparable trauma, someone who had seen the worst humanity had to offer but still had to bear the burden of existing.

And then he felt anger spreading through his body as he switched his focus to Alexander, who wore the same smile as the last photo, his eyes bright and his expression completely unburdened by anything. Alexander was _engaged_ to you, and he didn’t even notice how you were wasting away. Spencer fought down a scoff at Alexander’s obvious ignorance.

So something had happened to you between your adolescence and early adulthood, something terrible. He filed that information away for the time being. At least he had a time frame, now.

But then he noticed how your body was angled away from Alexander, how you seemed to shrink from his touch, how Alexander seemed to take up all the space in the photo despite only occupying half of the photo. His arm was draped around your shoulders, holding you to him in an overtly possessive way.

Spencer rarely felt the blade of white hot fury tear through him, but for the split second before his strong sense of rationality took over, Spencer learned the true definition of rage.

Obviously, he couldn’t judge an entire relationship based off of a photograph, but he knew a narcissist when he saw one. He couldn't say he was surprised; men who came from a background like Alexander did tended to have an even more inflated sense of self-entitlement than the average _piece of shit_. Men who came from a background like Alexander were used to getting what they wanted, used to leading, used to exploiting others for their own personal gain.

Men who came from a background like Alexander, who had the obvious _ego_ that Alexander did, who were well-trained in the art of social facades like Alexander likely was, tended to be manipulative and toxic partners.

Pair _that_ with someone like you, someone who he knew to be strong-willed and opinionated and brilliant but who looked absolutely _broken_ in the photograph… 

Spencer just set his jaw and filed _that_ information away for later analysis. At least he now perhaps had some insight as to why you struggled with vulnerability, with intimacy, with _trust_.

He scanned this article quickly as well. It was a typical engagement announcement featured in a magazine that seemed to appeal to his ridiculous high society culture you seemed to have been a part of at some point. It spoke about the Marseille family, The Monet Society, Alexander’s blooming career in finance (of _course_ Alexander would be going into finance _,_ Spencer noted), and his plans for the future. There was a brief synopsis of your relationship, detailing how you had been friends throughout all of childhood and begun dating in adolescence, and an even briefer description of you, which just mentioned that you were a PhD candidate at Columbia— 

Wait.

Spencer blinked.

Spencer knew he was far from the only agent with a PhD (perhaps the only one with _three_ , but he’d always been an outlier in that regard). It was just that all the other agents he’d met with PhDs were… _older_ than he was, and all of them acknowledged with _pride_ that they held doctorate degrees. And he couldn’t say that he was entirely surprised that you were (at one point, at least) on the path to getting your own, especially at such a young age, given your credentials and intellect, but…

Why would you never mention it? Did you drop out before finishing your research? You didn’t seem like the type who _would_ … 

Spencer’s head started to hurt, and with a quiet groan, he buried his face into his hands, scrunching up his face as an ache appeared behind his eyes. He rubbed his eye with the heel of his palm.

“And, um, there’s one last freaky thing in here, if you want to hear about it,” Garcia said quietly. When Spencer picked his head up from his hands, he saw her staring down tenderly at him.

He sighed. Spencer didn’t understand how there could _possibly_ be anything _else_ about you, but at this point, he just sighed and leaned back in the chair, trying to ignore the way his temple pulsed. “Go ahead,” he said.

“Okay, so _this_ one is a little… I don’t know if _sketchy_ is the right word, but we’ll go with that. When I was looking around and trying to track the breadcrumbs of the hacker—who we’ll just assume is Y/N, because I don’t think I can’t handle another security breach by someone trying to kill us—I found traces of _another_ deleted file, and after some digging, I found an empty ghost file titled…” She rapidly typed again before a blank document filled the page. She circled the mouse around the name of the document. “Operation Angel. And _then_ I tried to backtrack this but… it’s just so encrypted and under so much security that if I go any farther, I will _definitely_ be fired and imprisoned and that’s not really how I want to spend the New Year. So.”

“What do you think it is?” Spencer asked.

Garcia shrugged. “Honestly, at this point, I wouldn’t be surprised if she was involved in a covert operation. Think about it: all of us could _barely_ get her to do _anything_ with the rest of us if it wasn’t work sanctioned, or after a case, or if it was just _for fun_ . She had _way_ more work than the rest of us. She was… shady and _mean_ sometimes for _no_ reason at all. And _now_ , all of a sudden, it’s like she’s a new person. I mean, she came to my Christmas party _and_ went to Rossi’s for New Year’s? And she seemed _happy about it_?” She leaned back in her chair, gesturing towards her screen. “Maybe it’s over for her. I wouldn’t always be my most loveliest self if I were involved in some freaky secret FBI thing. Remember what happened to JJ?”

Spencer’s mouth went dry at the memory of it, and at the thought of _you_ being subjected to the same torture that JJ had been. But before he could go down that rabbithole, one of Garcia’s screens filled up with code, and her computer _pinged_ softly.

Garcia sat up. “Hang on—something just got added to her file.” Garcia typed some more and then froze up completely, her eyebrows narrowing in alarm, her eyes widening, and her mouth falling open. “Oh,” she gasped quietly.

Spencer’s heart rate picked up. “What?”

“It… just… she… there’s…”

“Garcia, _what_.”

She pressed her lips together as she whimpered quietly and pressed a button on her keyboard. A new form filled the screen, and when Spencer read its contents, he slowly leaned forward as his heart dropped to his stomach yet again.

It was an approved transfer request. For you. Signed by Director Boucher. To the New York City field office. Where you would be the unit leader for the field agents.

A transfer request.

For you.

Out of Quantico.

To New York City.

Away from the BAU.

Away from _him_.

“She’s leaving?” Garcia asked quietly. “But… we just… she just… she _just_ started being a part of the family…”

“She had a meeting with the Director this morning,” Spencer whispered back. Was _that_ why you met with him?

She whipped her head around to look at Spencer, studied him for a moment, and then went back to the form. She took up typing again, and three of her monitors filled up with scrolling code for a few moments. And then she took a deep breath. “Okay, okay, okay. She has a meeting with Boucher _today_ , and this file _also_ comes in _today_ . It looks like it’s been pending for a while, _and_ she hasn’t signed off on it yet. There’s no date set for her transfer. So maybe it’s not _official_?” Her shoulders slumped and she looked back at Spencer again. “I don’t want her to go,” she admitted quietly.

Spencer could hardly register Garcia’s words, instead trying desperately to rationalize the transfer request. It just couldn’t be right. You wouldn’t transfer _back_ to the city; your refusal to discuss your upbringing and childhood and family with anyone was indicative of someone desperate to separate herself from her past. It didn’t make _sense_.

But, then again, if you were only in Quantico to be a part of “Operation Angel,” and if it was seemingly over, then maybe it made sense for you to leave. If that was the only reason you were _here_ , why else would you stay?

Maybe he was just too desperate to think clearly, to think about this from an unbiased perspective. He couldn’t be unbiased when it came to you, when it came to _this_. 

Too many people he loved had left him already. He couldn’t handle another. He _couldn’t_.

But before he allowed himself to spiral into that, he quietly asked Garcia, “You’ve been sitting on most of this since the beginning of December?”

Garcia bit the inside of her cheek and nodded.

“And you didn’t… _say_ anything, or ask her about anything, or…”

She took a few moments before responding, “Well… it doesn’t matter in the end, right? Genius or not, weird… freaky mystery files or not, she’s still just Y/N. I mean, obviously there’s something she’s hiding, but I’m not going to treat her any differently because of it. It’s hard to have secrets with this job, so I think we’re all entitled to have a couple of things to ourselves. She just… happens to have more than the rest of us, I guess.”

Wise and surprising words from the self-proclaimed “Gossip Queen of the BAU.”

But the sentiment wasn’t enough to stop Spencer.

Spencer stood up and strode back to the door, mumbling a “Thanks, Garcia,” over his shoulder as he unlocked her office door and strode down the hall. Garcia called after him. He ignored her.

He sped through the bullpen, then ignoring JJ who asked, “Spence?” as he brushed past her, jogged up the stairs, and finally stopped in Hotch’s office.

Hotch was sitting at his desk, pen in hand, signing off on reports when Spencer closed the door behind him. 

“Reid,” Hotch asked without even looking up from his papers, “is there something you need?”

Spencer crossed the room and sat in the chair across from Hotch’s desk, his hands clutching the strap of his messenger bag. “I need to talk to you about something.”

Hotch sighed, finally putting his pen down and looking up. “What is it?”

“Is…” He paused, giving himself one second to back out, before continuing in a hushed tone, “Is Y/N involved in something that we don’t know about?”

If anyone would know what was going on with you, Hotch would have to. He _had_ to know _something_.

But instead, Hotch stiffened slightly, a small notch appearing between his brows. “What do you mean?” Hotch asked.

Spencer shifted in his seat. “Just… I think she might have been involved in something, and I’m worried it could be another… _JJ_ situation.”

Hotch studied Spencer for a few moments, his eyes narrowing. Spencer fought to keep his face neutral—just the portrait of a composed yet _concerned_ coworker. He should have known that he wouldn’t be able to keep anything from Hotch, though.

Finally, Hotch spoke, and at the tone of his voice, Spencer had to fight down a wince at being profiled. “First of all,” Hotch began, “even if I _did_ know of such an involvement, I wouldn’t be at liberty to tell you, nor would it be your place to ask. Second of all, why are you asking?”

Spencer was silent. He couldn’t _lie_ (and he wouldn’t want to in the first place), so he just sighed and began speaking. He was halfway through explaining the mysteries in your file, halfway through explaining his hypotheses on Operation Angel and your transfer, when Hotch cut him off.

“Reid,” Hotch said, “I’m going to stop you. That’s _highly_ unprofessional of you and grounds for disciplinary action. You realize this, correct?” Spencer shut his eyes and nodded. “For both you _and_ Garcia, because I know you didn’t just stumble upon this.” Spencer nodded again. He opened his eyes to find himself pinned by Hotch’s stare. 

Then, Hotch’s tone softened. “She’s an excellent agent with a sterling reputation with the bureau, Reid—highly regarded by several higher ups. _If_ she is involved in something, and we don’t know about it, there’s a reason. Drop it.”

But Spencer couldn’t. “But, Hotch, it’s just… she could be transferring, and I don’t—”

“Then that is her business, not yours, not mine, not any of ours. _If_ she leaves, we’ll all be sad to see her go. But it’s not our place to interfere. I won’t tell you again— _drop it_ , Reid.” When Spencer exhaled heavily through his nose and slumped back into his seat, wringing his hands on his messenger bag strap, Hotch sighed and added more gently, “I know these things are difficult for you. I’m sorry that it’s upsetting, but that’s the reality of it. You need to let it go. Can you do that?”

Spencer knew he couldn’t, but he nodded nonetheless. He suspected Hotch didn’t believe him.

But Hotch just tilted his head towards the door, picking up his pen again. “Good. Get back to work.” He left no room for anymore discussion and turned his gaze back down to his papers.

So Spencer stood, slightly defeated, and exited the office, slowly dragging himself back to his desk. Prentiss and Morgan both eyed him as he went, but didn’t say anything.

And just as he settled into his chair and _finally_ unloaded his things, he saw you walk back through the glass doors and into the bullpen.

You looked _furious_.

You didn’t acknowledge him as you sped to your desk, practically tossing your purse and coat onto your chair and slamming your travel mug onto your table, before striding across the room to the hallway that housed the restrooms and disappearing.

Prentiss let out a low whistle. “I would _not_ want to be on the receiving end of _that_ ,” she muttered to herself before turning back to her own work.

You were angry about something, and you had presumably just returned from your meeting with Director Boucher. You _had_ to have spoken about the transfer with him, so maybe your anger was a good sign. Maybe it meant that you were being pushed towards something you didn’t want.

He wouldn’t be surprised if that were the case, especially when it involved the BAU. The higher ups had a history of forcing transfer decisions on the team, after all. 

So maybe you were fighting it.

And that possibility eased some of the tension in his mind, but it wasn’t enough to convince him. Eventually, Boucher or whoever else was pushing you towards this would offer you an ultimatum that would force you to do as they said. That was the nature of the political nonsense of your job.

Eventually, you would cave. You would have to.

Spencer didn’t know much about heartbreak in practice. 

In theory, he knew that the emotional pain of heartbreak registered as physical pain in the brain due to the sudden drop of dopamine and oxytocin levels and the rise in cortisol in its wake. He knew that depending on the amount of cortisol released relative to the amount of dopamine and oxytocin levels dropping, the time frame for “recovery” varied drastically. He knew that time would still eventually force one’s brain chemistry to return to its base state _before_ the addiction that was love and the pain that was heartbreak messed everything up.

And in practice, all he knew was that in the weeks following Maeve’s death, he truly thought that he would never know happiness again. That he would never feel _alive_ again. That he would simply exist for the rest of his life, floating through a numb haze that knew neither sunlight or darkness.

He knew he was setting himself up for something catastrophic with you. He knew that he was almost _asking_ to have his brain destroyed by cortisol.

But he couldn’t let it go. He _couldn’t_ . And he would do everything in his power to convince you to stay, to fight the bureaucratic _assholes_ that repeatedly tried to tear apart his family. And now that he knew a little bit more about you (despite the _mountain_ of new questions he now had), he could form a better attack strategy.

He could figure out a way to make sure you knew that he would _never_ endeavor to hurt you, and that he would instead, only ever try to love you to the best of his ability.

When you finally returned to your desk, your face damp from presumably having splashed water on it, you dropped into your chair with a sigh before digging into your purse for your laptop. 

“How was your meeting?” he asked, trying to keep his voice cool, ignorant, and just a _little_ sarcastic.

You let out a bitter laugh. “Take a guess,” you answered harshly.

He pressed his lips together into a fine line. “Anything I can do to help?” He let his words imply what only you would understand.

You paused, hand poised over your keyboard, and then sighed through your nose. You turned to him and slumped back into your seat. “No, not tonight. I’m sorry,” you said quietly so that no one could overhear.

He pretended that the rejection didn’t bother him, preparing to shrug and turn back to his own desk, and then you continued, “But if you want to just… I don’t know, hang out like we used to do after work, I would honestly love that.”

Spencer studied you for a moment. He took in your slumped shoulders again, your dark circles (now more prominent after you seemed to have washed it away), and the sadness that was coming off of you in waves. There was something… _defeated_ about you today. Something that was exhausted on a fundamental level.

And if you were exhausted, if something was eating away at you, and you were seeking him out just for company rather than the “distraction” he had become for you, then that said something about him, didn’t it? That said that his presence was a source of energy, a source of revitalization, a source of _comfort_.

So Spencer couldn’t fight the smile that lifted to his face. “Sure,” he said, “whatever you want.”

You gave him a tired smile in response before turning back to your laptop, opening a document, and sending it to the printer. As you stood and walked by his desk, you reached out and lightly squeezed his shoulder before heading to pick up your papers.

The spot you touched felt electric long after you had left.

Still smiling to himself, Spencer dug into his bag and started laying out his own work for the day. His mind, however, was stuck on you, as it often was nowadays, and his chest felt warm and alive with possibility.

Perhaps not all was as hopeless as he had thought.

So after completing the bulk of his work for the day in record time, he began to formulate his plan—a comprehensive guide for finally convincing you to break down your walls and let him in. A guide for showing you that he loved you without scaring you away. 

He just hoped it wouldn’t backfire on him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if this chapter was a little boring! I hope it answered some questions (and also raised a bunch more ;) ) about y/n's history. Thank you for reading!


	18. A Dateless Melody

_You were on a beach, sitting on the sand, staring out onto the ocean. The sun overhead was obscured by a dense wall of clouds, and though you were dressed in denim cutoffs and a sheer button down shirt, you couldn’t feel the wind whipping around you. Your body was numb to the frigid bite of the winter elements._

_But you knew this place, and when you craned your head around to look behind you, you saw a sandy path bordered by dune grass leading up to a blue house. Once that blue house had been full of love and laughter, the setting of parties and cookouts and happy beach days. It held late night stargazing sessions on the roof that made your heart ache for the innocence that once defined your relationships, and it carried eighteen years of blissful memories inside._

_Eighteen years of happiness._

_Now, it was dark inside. Empty. And from where you sat, you could see that the deck that once bustled with activity was silent. The furniture had been put away. The wood was cracked from the outside elements. It hadn’t been properly cleaned or refinished in years._

_The house was lonesome now. Quiet. Dead._

_Gulls screeched in the distance, barely audible over the crashing waves. It would be high tide soon, and the edge of the water was inching closer and closer to you with every swell._

_You drew your knees up and rested your chin on them. You didn’t move, instead embracing the ocean as stray droplets sprayed across your skin._

_And when the water finally began kissing your toes, you closed your eyes and sighed as if you could infuse your very own vitality into the sea. As if it were an offering to the world. A sacrifice. A payment._

_Let the tide take you. Let the ocean reclaim you. Let the water drown you._

_But then, as you felt your clothes begin to saturate with salt water, you heard a noise from behind—the sound of metal chair legs scraping against wood and the sound of quiet laughter._

_You whipped your head around again, your eyes widening, your mouth going dry._

_The lights in the house had turned on, the deck door was open, and you could now hear soft orchestral music playing from a speaker somewhere within. Three people were on the deck. Not one of them noticed you on the beach._

_You tried to call out to them._

_Mom._

_Dad._

_Lizzy._

_But you couldn’t speak. And when you tried to surge to your feet to run to them, you found your body frozen on the sand. You were trapped, slowly sinking down into the tide as it rose. You could hear their chatter, their laughter, like the melody of wind chimes swaying in a whisper of a breeze._

_You’d missed that sound. You wished you could burn it into your ears so you’d never forget it, even as they seemingly forgot you._

_Maybe you deserved that._

_And when the water reached your shoulders, a tear slipped down your cheek. The three of them began packing away their things and, one by one, filed back into the house. Without you. Leaving you to drown on the beach alone._

_But Lizzy paused in the doorway, turning around to face the ocean. She was frozen in time, still the sixteen-year-old girl she was when you’d lost her. She scanned the sand as if looking for something. Your eyes locked. She didn’t acknowledge you._

_She had looked at you but hadn’t_ seen _you._

_Lizzy turned back to the house and walked inside, closing the door behind her silently. The water was now high enough to rush around your face, to carry away your tears._

_So you just cried and watched your family abandon you while the tide continued rising._

_And rising._

_And rising…_

You woke up with a sharp inhale through your nose, quickly sitting up straight and rubbing the sleep from your eyes with the back of your hand. In front of you, your television was halfway through _Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan_.

You turned to your right and found Spencer sitting beside you, staring. He reached for the remote. “You alright?” he asked as he paused the movie.

When you took in the situation, you realized you must have fallen asleep on his shoulder. Your thigh was pressed against his, and his left arm was draped over the back of the couch, his hand curling around your opposite shoulder.

You blinked. “Yeah,” you answered, your voice slightly hoarse. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to fall asleep. I promise that it’s not that I don’t like _Star Trek_.”

“It’s okay. I’m not offended.” Then he paused and then cautiously added, “You’ve seemed pretty exhausted this week.”

You sighed with a listless shrug, “I guess.”

It had been a slow few days since New Year’s and a rare respite from the heavy travel your work required. There were no cases coming in, which meant that your job became little more than mountains of paperwork, occasional psych analyses, and guest lecturing at the FBI Academy. It seemed that even serial killers were taking time off for the New Year—not that you could complain.

But despite the lull in your ordinarily busy life, you couldn’t take advantage of the extra time. You’d been too busy trying to figure out a way around Boucher’s ultimatum: transfer to the New York division, or he would put more regulations and restrictions on the BAU. And when you’d lost your temper in his office, cursing him out without caring who heard, he’d threatened to suspend you.

He gave you until the end of the month to make your decision, and after a day or two of rumination, you struck a deal with him: if Maryanne was fruitful in her work, if she led you to your family’s killer and you were able to finally solve the case, then he would back off.

If not, you became the unit leader for the New York City field agents, effective February 1st.

You knew Boucher was just worried about you working around so much death. And you knew he was coming from a good place. Had your parents’ death been before you were a legal adult, Boucher would’ve been yours and Lizzy’s legal guardian according to your parents’ will. You had grown up around him, and he, like Victor, was the closest thing you had to an uncle.

But the fact was that he was not your parent, nor were you a child any longer. And he had no right to treat you like one when you were _in your fucking thirties_.

So, now, you spent most nights up late desperately trying to find information on Maryanne, but she was excellent at erasing herself. And when you couldn’t find _anything_ about her, then you were up all night anyway, your mind turning with all the worst possible scenarios.

To top it off, Spencer had been coming over every single night since New Year’s. He always left around midnight, and you hadn’t slept together since then; it felt… wrong to use him as a way to detract from your own turmoil, now. Honestly, it felt wrong to even spend time with him like _this_. Fucking him had been a distraction in its own right, but now, even being with him soothed the perpetual ache in your soul. He momentarily took your mind off of Maryanne and Boucher and the potential transfer. He gave you respite from yourself.

You knew you should have said “no” whenever he asked to come over, but you couldn’t. You _wanted_ him over at your apartment. What once had been your sanctuary of solitude had become a crushing reminder of your decided fate: loneliness. Spencer chased that feeling away; his presence was like a balm on your oldest wounds.

You’d even turned down Preston when he asked to get drinks “like old times” in favor of watching _Star Trek_ on your couch with Spencer.

And Preston was one of the closest things you’d ever had to a best friend. The fact that you turned him down for someone you saw _every day_ said something. And you didn’t even have a particular inclination to watch _Star Trek_ . It was just the fact that _Spencer_ , who famously loved the franchise, wanted to watch them with you after hearing you’d never seen any of the movies nor episodes before. It was like he wanted to share a piece of something he loved with you, and you didn’t have it in you to turn him down. You _wanted_ him to share that piece with you.

You weren’t dense; you _knew_ what it meant for you and what you were doing. You were walking a dangerous line, one that did not frighten you as much as it should have.

And that fact in and of itself was more terrifying than the possibilities from which you had closed yourself off for so many years.

So you stood up quickly from the couch and stretched. You could feel his eyes tracking you as you did so. Your skin was warm, heated, and the damp sweat coating your skin felt all too much like the ocean water that had just submerged you.

You quickly shed your worn purple NYU sweatshirt and tossed it onto the other end of the couch, leaving you in a thin grey t-shirt. “We can keep watching, if you want. I promise I won’t fall asleep again.”

He didn’t respond for a beat. Instead, his gaze was fixed on your discarded sweatshirt. He gestured to it with his head and said, “Last time I asked, you said you didn’t go to NYU.”

You stiffened. You had a vague recollection of him asking the first time he came over when you were ill, which was also the last time you had worn the sweatshirt. Perhaps it was a poor decision. “I didn’t.”

Spencer tilted his head slightly to the side. “Where _did_ you go?”

It wasn’t a strange question; it was just one you didn’t like answering. He’d asked you this before, and like always, your first instinct was to avoid. A different question was poised on your tongue, but then you paused.

Why did you actually care?

You recognized that you were a private person to a fault. Part of it was because you yourself were still trying desperately to separate yourself from the life you no longer wanted to be associated with, but it was also because you knew that such small talk questions were avenues for larger discussions—about background, about childhood, about family.

And while you would never get into those details with Spencer (or with _anyone_ ), at least _opening_ that avenue of possibility with Spencer didn’t seem as terrifying as it once had.

So instead, you quietly said, “Columbia.” 

The delight that lit up his eyes in response to you saying even such a surface level personal detail about yourself made your heart flutter with warmth.

“Impressive,” was all he said in return. But there was something off about his tone, something expectant, something knowing. 

You didn’t think much of it, shrugging and responding, “Not really. Ivy Leagues are little more than a brand. Going to one doesn’t really mean much in the long run..”

He narrowed his brows as if surprised by your answer and opened his mouth again, but you cut him off: “I’m getting a glass of water. Would you like anything?”

“I’ll take water,” he answered. He gave you a slight smile, but his eyebrows remained slightly narrowed, this time with concern over your brusque segue from the conversation.

You just nodded and headed to your kitchen, where you opened the fridge door and closed your eyes. When you opened them and stole a glance at your watch, you saw that it was nearly 11pm. He’d been here since 7pm, just as he had been every day for the past few days.

You blew out a heavy breath. What were you getting yourself into?

As you swiped the filtered water pitcher from your fridge and began filling two glasses, you heard the telltale sound of an E note playing through your apartment. 

You paused.

Then there was another, and then an F, and then a G, and then another G, and then—

“Are you playing ‘Ode to Joy’?” you called from the kitchen before picking up the glasses and walking back.

His back was to you as you approached, but you could still hear the smile in Spencer’s voice. “Did you know that the premier of Beethoven’s Symphony Number 9 was the first time Beethoven had performed in twelve years? It’s widely believed that Beethoven was completely deaf during this performance, but some scholars argue that he could actually still hear very, _very_ faintly with his left ear until shortly before his death in 1827. Regardless, his hearing loss was still so severe that he was still conducting even after the orchestra had finished. He had planned out all the tempos to every single section of the symphony, but the ‘official conductor’ of the night, Michael Umlauf, told all of the players and singers to disregard Beethoven’s instructions entirely. So Beethoven just assumed that the symphony was still going on because he couldn’t tell otherwise. Caroline Unger, a member of the choir, is credited with turning him around to face the audience to finally see their applause.” He looked up from his right hand, which was resting on the keys, and turned his gaze towards you. “And the audience knew of his hearing loss, so they threw their hats and scarves in the air to make sure he knew how much they loved it.” 

You handed him his glass, and he straightened up to take it. “May 7th, 1824. Vienna. A night that forever changed music,” you answered. “He was the first composer to include vocals in a symphony. You could argue that he practically started the romantic era of music with that symphony alone.” You took a sip from your glass and then said more softly, “The romantic era is my favorite.”

Spencer raised his brows. “Really?”

“Why do you sound so surprised?”

He tilted his head to the side a little bit, his eyes going up in thought. “You just strike me as more of a _baroque_ era fan.”

“Well, I _do_ love Pachabel and Vivaldi— _and_ Bach, of course, just not as much—but… I don’t know. The romantic era broke convention. It redefined music. It focused on the ‘what ifs’ and ‘what could have beens’ of life, you know? It was about dreaming, and it was just… _perfect_ for the piano.” You paused, looking down at the keys, and your face warmed a bit as you quietly admitted with a wistful smile, “And the romantic era composers made me want to be a concert pianist when I was a kid.”

When you dared a glance to Spencer’s face, at the way his eyebrows shot up and the way the corners of his lips quirked up with delight, and your chest warmed again. You _liked_ sharing these little things about yourself with Spencer, if for no other reason than the fact that hearing you speak about yourself brought him joy. You _wanted_ to make him happy, even at the cost of opening yourself up.

For the first time in fifteen years, you _wanted_ to open up—just a little bit, with these tiny, inconsequential facts about yourself. 

“You wanted to be a concert pianist?” he asked with quiet incredulity.

You nodded. “Yeah. I was a kid though. It’s the same as some kids saying they wanted to be an actress, or a singer, or a writer. It was a fleeting dream. But I just…” This time, when you trailed off, you couldn’t stop the instinct of brushing the pads of your fingers against the keys. Playing the piano had gotten easier for you in the past month. It didn’t bring the weight of memories as strongly as it once had anymore. Once, it had been your only form of true expression. And now, it seemed to be the only place where you could be fully honest with yourself about everything. Whenever your fingers danced across the ivory keys, your burdens, your traumas, your fears, and your loneliness were transformed into something beautiful for a short while.

Something you used to share in front of tremendous crowds, something that you used to flaunt with pride, had now become one of the most intimate things about you. The irony was not lost on you.

So you continued, “I just wanted to move people. To tell stories in the most universal language, you know? I wanted to give something beautiful to the world.”

“Yeah, I get it,” he answered softly, that lovely smile still plastered on his face. “But I, uh… I wanted to be a _magician_ when I was a kid, so I can’t _really_ relate.”

You breathed a laugh. “That doesn’t surprise me in the slightest, Reid. Though, I have to admit—” You crossed your arms on top of the piano and leaned on it. “—I _am_ surprised at the fact that you don’t play an instrument.” 

“Oh, what, my ‘Ode To Joy’ wasn’t up to your standards?”

“ _No_ , it’s not that,” you laughed. “I’m just _saying_ that high intelligence and musical prowess often go hand-in-hand. Music theory at its core is just math—”

“—Math,” he said at the same time as you.

Spencer smiled again, more to himself than at you, and then shook his head a little. “It’s one thing to understand the theory and be able to read sheet music, and quite another to put it into practice. And I don’t think I have the… _grace_ to pull it off well enough to be impressive.” He looked down at the keys, then at the line of music books and binders stacked on top of the piano, and then at you. He was quiet for a few moments, contemplative, and he studied you. “You said you didn’t play anymore because you didn’t have a reason, right?” He didn’t give you a chance to respond before continuing, “Would teaching me be reason enou—” 

“No.”

The answer was so instinctual that the beginning of his question barely registered in your mind before the word came out. And when his face fell completely, you wished you could take it back, even if you meant it.

Besides, you weren’t a teacher, and all you could play anymore were pieces of mourning, of regret, of nostalgia. The only thing you could infuse into your music was the darkest part of you. And you weren’t ready to let him into that piece of you yet. Not like this. Not yet.

But still, when Spencer’s face immediately fell, you wished you could take it back. You would have done almost anything to put the soft smile back on his face. You loved that smile, especially when it was because of you. The last thing you wanted was to be the reason it disappeared.

But before you could say anything, his phone went off in his pocket.

Spencer pressed his lips together tightly, wordlessly taking his phone out and answering the call. “This is Dr. Spencer Reid.” His eyebrows furrowed. “Yes, sorry, give me one moment.” He pulled the phone away from his ear and looked back at you, lips parted. You just waved your hand down the hallway, and he gave you a tight smile before walking away towards the hall.

He left his glass of water on the piano bench. You picked it up along with your own and headed back to your couch, gingerly placing them down on the glass coffee table. And though you _tried_ not to eavesdrop, Spencer spoke loud enough that his voice filtered to the main room from down the hallway.

“How long was she agitated?” A pause, then an exasperated huff. “Yes, I’m aware that the agitation is omnipresent. I meant for this particular instance.” Another pause. “ _What_? What do you mean?”

This was not a conversation you should be hearing. You picked up the remote and began playing the film again, but not even it could overpower the noise of Reid’s increasingly more frustrated conversation.

“That’s ridiculous. Move her from Clozapine back to Risperidone. Clozapine is _not_ the appropriate… I don’t ca—Dr. Mark, I’m paying you to take care of my mother, and you’re failing to… I understand the risks in elderly patients, but she didn’t have a single cardiovascular event when she was taking Risperidone before, and she also didn’t lash out at othe—Dr. Mark. Dr. Mark. I fully respect your expertise, but you’re absolutely incorrect. Do not change her treatment regimen unless I approve it. Put her back on Risperidone, and add a low dose of Olanzapine to her nightly medication. Five milligrams… this is non-negotiable, Dr. Mark.”

And then there was a heavy silence for a long while, and then a heavy sigh. You could practically see Spencer rubbing his brow with his forefinger and thumb. “Yes, I _am_ looking into alternative residential treatment facilities. Believe me; I don’t want her there any longer than _you_ do. Yes. Yes. Have a good night—and _remember_ : Risperidone and Olanzapine. Not Clozapine. Thank you.”

You heard his flip phone snap shut with unnecessary force before he reentered the space. His hair was now tousled, like he’d run a hand through it several times in frustration, and his face was slightly flushed. He spotted you on the couch staring at him, and he came over to sit beside you with a sigh.

“Everything alright?” you asked quietly, pausing the movie yet again.

Spencer tilted his head back on the couch and closed his eyes for a moment. “No.”

You sat in silence. Gone was the light in his face from just a few moments ago, and instead in its wake, worry lines had set in, and his brow was scrunched. 

And even though you knew it wasn’t any of your business to pry into his mother’s medication, you also couldn’t help but note the medications he had her on. At one point in your life, this had been your passion. Your research in neuroscience had once been the source of academic praise, even if you saw it has a tremendous failure, so you couldn’t stop yourself from asking, “Have you tried moving her to acetylcholinesterase inhibitors?”

His eyes opened, and he turned to face you. He blinked. “What?”

“Sorry. You were talking loudly, so I just overheard…” You shifted in your seat a bit. “Dementia patients with symptoms of psychosis who don’t respond to atypical antipsychotics occasionally respond better to acetylcholinesterase inhibitors like Rivastigmine.”

“No, no, I know what you’re talking about,” he answered. He furrowed his brows, his expression an intersection of both confusion and something informed as he studied you again. You shifted in your seat again under his gaze. “I’ve thought about it,” he finally continued, “but she generally responds well enough to atypical antipsychotics. She just… still gets agitated sometimes. And acetylcholinesterase inhibitors don’t treat schizophrenia directly.”

“Right, but they lessen cognitive deficits by inhibiting acetylcholinesterase reuptake. Schizophrenia and dementia have a high comorbidity rate, true, but dementia itself presents its own symptoms of psychosis that are independent of schizophrenia. You said she’s gotten worse; maybe it’s not the schizophrenia that’s gotten worse but the dementia, and you’re focusing on the wrong disease.”

He just stared at you.

You retreated and quickly said, “I’m sorry. It’s not my business.”

“No, I appreciate the concern, but it’s…” He trailed off, cocking his head slightly to the side in thought. Then he just shook his head to himself before continuing, “I’ve considered that, but she takes memantine for the cognitive losses. The potential side-effects for acetylcholinesterase inhibitors are just…”

“Too risky?”

He nodded. “I know it’s not a reason to deny a treatment that could potentially be beneficial, but… at the risk of making her life miserable in a different way? I wouldn’t… I couldn’t…” Spencer let out a heavy sigh and leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his thighs and running his hands over his face. “If she has another break like this, I might tell her doctor to prescribe benzodiazepine for the anxiety. I don’t know. I hate not knowing. I hate that there are so few concrete and definitive success stories with pharmacological intervention at this level of severity. I hate that I haven’t figured out a _cure_ , or at least a better treatment yet.” He let out a small bitter laugh laced with defeat to himself before picking his head up and looking at you again. His eyes were tired, indicative of a breaking spirit underneath, and your heart hurt at the knowledge that you couldn’t do much to help him.

You knew what it was like to be praised for your intellect, to have built your identity around it, only for it to fail you when you needed it most.

“I know. I’m sorry,” you said softly, and he gave you a sad smile.

You would do anything to bring the delight back to his face, to give him something beautiful to focus on for a moment instead.

So you sighed and reached for his hand, taking it in yours and standing up. He stayed on the couch but didn’t pull his hand away. He looked up at you with a raised brow. “What?” he asked.

You tugged on his hand. “Come on. I’ll teach you to play something if you’d still like.”

A shadow of confusion passed over his face before it lit up again. “Really?” he asked, slowly standing up.

You didn’t let go of his hand as you brought him over to the piano, gesturing for him to take a seat on the bench. He did as told while you sifted through the music books on display on top of the piano. Then you frowned. Everything on the piano was too advanced, and even if you knew that Spencer would likely pick it up rather quickly, you still wanted to start with something easy.

“Stay here,” you instructed. You could feel his eyes tracking you as you grabbed your keys from beside the front door and headed down the hall to your office. After quickly unlocking it, you closed it behind you and sighed heavily. Yours eyes couldn’t help but linger on your desktop, on the photos tacked onto the corkboard on the right wall, on the map—

You closed your eyes and shook your head, turning to your left where you kept boxes of personal memorabilia. There was a tall shelf in the back left corner where you had photographs on display, and to the right of the shelf, you had your school degrees framed and hanging. You stared at them for no more than a second before diving into one of the cardboard boxes on the floor.

It took you a few minutes to figure out which box housed miscellaneous music books. You hadn’t touched this portion of your office since you set it up; it had been years. But finally, you found the book you were looking for: a short collection of elementary level Bach pieces. The edges were worn and frayed, and the paper was yellowing with age. You couldn’t help but smile fondly at the book.

This was your first piano book. And when you flipped open to the title page, you saw your name written at the top in big, unpracticed letters. 

You tucked it under your arm and headed back out, locking the door behind you and dropping your keys off back where they belonged beside the front door. 

Spencer eyed you as you approached again, and his eyes flickered between you and the hallway in question. You ignored it and instead placed the book on the music rack, opening to the first piece in the book—Bach’s _Minuet in G_.

Then you nudged Spencer to the side, sitting to his left.

“This is the first piece I learned how to play, and my first recital performance,” you said quietly. And when you glanced at Spencer’s face, you could see solace edging into his expression again.

And that made the idea of sharing this with him a little less intimidating.

“Is that so?” he murmured. “How old were you?”

“Almost five-years-old.” You laughed to yourself. “It was… atrocious. No dynamics, no expression… honestly, I would have been better off playing a harpsichord instead of a piano. At least then I would’ve had an excuse.”

His smile widened, and a little more of the darkness in his eyes faded. “You were four. I think that’s reason enough,” he answered. Then he turned back to the open book, his eyes softening. “Okay, where do we start?”

And so you directed him. He already knew the famous piece, of course, and could read sheet music already. It was just a matter of connecting his brain to his hands. It didn’t take very long for him to get the melody for the first section down, but he ran into a bit of trouble incorporating the harmony with his left hand. After slight hesitation when he lamented over his lack of coordination, you took over the harmony yourself to let him focus on learning the last section, and instead of a solo, the piece became a slow duet.

Forty-five minutes ticked by without a care, and with your thighs pressed up against his on the piano bench, laughing as your apartment came alive with the sound of the minuet. Your face was flushed. His ears turned red every time he messed up.

You were happy, and unashamedly so, just because you couldn’t find a reason to be enveloped in your own darkness when Spencer sat beside you smiling from ear to ear at some points, or with furrowed brows and his tongue peaking out between his teeth in concentration at others. And when the two of you finally made it through the minuet for the first time without him making any mistakes, he got so excited that you couldn’t help but throw your arms around him in congratulations.

He swayed to the right and had to throw his foot to the side to keep the two of you from tumbling off the bench, but his arms quickly came around you as well. He buried his face into the top of your head, laughing.

And when you pulled away, your arms still half encircling him, and you looked up at his face, you found him looking down at you with unabashed joy. His eyes were bright again, his face split into a grin of delight, and his cheeks were bright pink.

You loved seeing him happy. You loved being the _reason_ he was happy.

And then his eyes flickered back to the piano, and then to you, and he murmured, “Thank you, Y/N.” His words held more gratitude than just for teaching him to play the piece. You understood.

“You’re welcome,” you answered softly.

Once more, his gaze turned to the piano. He had yet to let you go as he said, “You know Bach didn’t even compose this piece? Christian Petzold did. And it’s funny because it’s one of those pieces that _everyone_ knows, even if they don’t realize it.”

You breathed a laugh through your nose in confirmation.

A far-off look graced Spencer’s face as he continued staring at the keys. Then, he looked at the books on top. “You played only the harmony of such a simple piece so beautifully. I have to say—it’s a shame that you don’t really play anymore.”

You bit the inside of your cheek. He wasn’t _entirely_ wrong; you _didn’t_ really play anymore, at least not in the way you used to. But he also didn’t know that he was the reason you started playing again, just for yourself, without need for praise or approval or to prove something to yourself. He didn’t know that it had become like a diary for you, the keys acting as the pen, and the music that perforated through your apartment the writing.

Your piano was now the keeper of all your secrets, all your stories, all your darkness.

And though you had only played songs of melancholy as of late, his presence beside you inspired something warmer, something joyful, something dreamlike. He inspired the “what ifs” and the “what could have beens” that drew you to the romantic era of music as a child.

He sparked hope in you for something you couldn’t have, and even if it was unattainable, it still warmed something you thought had long since frozen over in your chest. And though you didn’t have the words to express that to him, you wanted to tell him nonetheless. 

You wanted to tell him what he meant to you.

“I can play something for you, if you’d like,” you finally said, so quiet you were surprised he even heard you.

“Are you serious?” he asked, and the excitement in his tone, the stars brilliantly shining in his eyes as he finally turned his gaze back to you, only encouraged you.

You nodded. “Yeah, but I’ll need the whole bench.”

You laughed to yourself as Spencer shot up from his seat and moved to the side of the piano, leaning his arms against the top and looking down expectantly at you. Suddenly, your cheeks grew warm, and you felt your heart rate pick up. This was the first time you’d played in front of anyone in well over a decade.

You were glad that it was for Spencer. You wouldn’t have done it for anyone else.

So you braced your feet over both the sustain pedal and the sostenuto pedal, gently lifted your fingers to the keys. Even though you hadn’t played this piece in years, it had been one of your favorites, and muscle memory took over completely as you slowly, shyly, and softly began playing Debussy’s _Rêverie_.

You allowed yourself one glance at Spencer’s face as you played, and from the way his expression changed, from the way his eyes softened with unabashed adoration, and from the way his lips parted slightly in amazement, you knew that he remembered. You knew that he understood why you picked this piece.

He understood what you wanted to tell him, what you couldn’t say, what you perhaps would never say. 

And that was enough for you.

So you infused every ounce of that into the piece that flowed from your fingers, spinning a narrative for Spencer that told a story of both loss and reclamation. And when you finally eased into the final chords, you looked up at him again.

His eyes were shiny with unshed tears, and he didn’t say anything as you slowly lifted your hands from the keys and folded them in your lap. The two of you stared at each other in silence for several moments.

And then he said in a quiet, hoarse voice, “I see why you like _Rêverie_ better than _Clair De Lune_. I think I do too, now.”

You smiled gently up at him, and your body moved of its own accord. Slowly, you lifted your hand and reached out for his, and you inched to the side to pull him back down to the piano bench with you. He sat down, never taking his eyes off of you, and let you lead this moment. He gave you the option to end it like you always had, or to allow it to grow just a little bit.

And for the first time, you decided that it could grow. That the two of you could live in this moment just for a little while.

For the first time, you didn’t try to shun away this _more_ between you two. 

So slowly, you reached a hand up and brushed a piece of hair from his forehead, moving your hand to the side of his face. He leaned into your hand, and finally, after several long moments of stillness, you tilted your face up to him and closed the distance between you.

You kissed him gently, tenderly, with no expectation nor desire to move anywhere but this moment. Gone were your worries—Boucher and Maryanne and the transfer not even a thought in your mind. There was simply you and Spencer and all that you couldn’t say to him. You kissed him with gratitude for all the times he’d remained by you even when you didn’t deserve him, and with remorse for all the times you shoved him away.

And when you pulled away and pressed your forehead to his, you smiled sweetly.

He smiled back.

And then his phone rang again at the same time yours did, and you both breathed a laugh. 

“That’s a case,” you whispered.

“Yeah,” he said back. “I don’t have my go bag here.”

“Mine’s in my car. Your place is on the way. We can make a stop. I’ll drive.”

“Okay.”

But neither of you moved for a few more seconds until your phone started _pinging_ with notifications. Finally, you rolled your eyes and leaned back, standing up from the bench. 

You held your hand out for him. “Let’s go save a life, Spencer.”

And he smiled up at you, taking your hand and quietly echoing, “Let’s go save a life.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you don't remember why Reverie by Debussy is significant, reread chapter 12 and read what y/n wrote about the piece when she was young ;) it's like halfway through the chapter. Let me know what you find ;)
> 
> I'm sorry if some of their conversation didn't make any sense. There's a weird amount of assumed knowledge that I couldn't explain in the actual story bc it wouldn't fit with their characters.
> 
> As always thank you for reading!!! :)


	19. You and I, To-Night!

“ _It’s not fair. I’m hurt. Truly wounded. I can’t_ believe _you guys!_ ” Garcia cried over FaceTime on Prentiss’ phone. “ _You guys wouldn’t solve a_ single _case without me, and what do I get? Nothing!_ ”

“Hey, come on, now, Garcia,” Prentiss said.

“ _No! No one thinks: hm, maybe Penelope, the light of_ all _of our lives, would_ also _like to attend the_ frickin’ vineyard wedding _!_ ”

JJ sighed a laugh and dropped her head, answering, “It was a last minute invitation, Garcia. I promise no one tried to exclude you.”

“ _Well_ ,” Garcia huffed, “ _you three are_ treating me _when you get back to dinner and drinks. I’m calling it. Dinner and drinks_ this _Friday. It’ll be ‘Appreciate Penelope Garcia Night’_.”

“It’s a date,” Prentiss answered. “We’ll see you in a few hours.”

With one last huff of indignation, Garcia ended the call. You, Prentiss, and JJ shared a laugh.

The case had been for one of JJ’s close friends from college, Madeline Cramer, who’d moved to Miami after graduation. Madeline was getting married at a vineyard upstate, but in the days leading up to the wedding date, all of her bridesmaids had been receiving photographs of bound and mutilated women who resembled them enclosed in envelopes addressed to their homes. Each envelope came with the same message: “just wait.”

Of course, the first course of action had been to identify the women in the photographs. After some search, you were able to find a criminal record for one of them—only for a prostitution arrest. When the team had discovered that _all_ the women in the photographs were known prostitutes in a seedier but specific area of Miami, you were finally able to backtrack the unsub steps to the man himself: an unstable jealous coworker of Madeline’s who was trying to scare her out of her wedding. He had been killing the women himself, taking them to his home on the edge of Biscayne Bay to model them post-mortem for the photos. He hadn’t gone for Madeline directly because his goal was only to tangentially scare her.

When you’d finally caught the guy, he had begged you to pass along a message of love to her. JJ had said nothing more than, “Sure thing,” just to satiate him.

Obviously, none of you did.

But as a gesture of gratitude, Madeline had invited the team to her wedding. The venue, catering, DJ, and decorations had all been paid in full with no chance for refund given how close it was to the wedding date, and so, she couldn’t cancel it without wasting thousands of dollars. You were glad she was able to have her wedding on its planned date; the wedding was _beautiful_.

The wedding ceremony itself had been just outside the venue on the grass. The couple had said their vows inside a rustic gazebo as the sunset, and then they led the guests into the barn styled reception area right beside where the wedding proceedings took place. The center of the barn was left open as a dancing area and a DJ’s booth while circular tables filled the rest of the area.

Ordinarily, even the idea of weddings made your skin crawl. You’d never understood the appeal of subscribing your life entirely to another person. And it didn’t help that you’d had a miserable time planning your own wedding.

But perhaps there were other reasons for why that was, too.

You, JJ, and Prentiss were standing around a table, glasses of wine in hand, at the wedding reception for a woman you’d likely never speak to again. Hotch and Morgan had left just before Garcia called to refresh their glasses, and Spencer had disappeared outside to the garden for his own phone call ten minutes ago. 

And you were getting antsy without Spencer. Your dynamic on this case had been different than usual. When you were paired together to build the geographical profile for the case, your ideas and planning flowed easier from one brain to the other. The way he spoke to you changed; it became more intellectually elevated, like there was a new understanding between you to which you weren’t privy. You figured it was because of the moment you’d shared in your apartment and didn’t think much more of it.

It was hard to ruminate over something like that when every time he passed by you, his hand lingered on the small of your back affectionately; you’d had to bite down a smile every time.

It was just so hard to keep yourself at a distance from him when he just kept tearing down every wall you built to keep him out and building a bridge in its stead.

And you knew that between Boucher breathing down your neck, the potential transfer, and the case, you shouldn’t have been concerning yourself with these things, especially when you knew that you couldn’t give Spencer what he deserved, but it was nice to just pretend that you could have it—that you could have that _more_ with him.

It was nice to just pretend that you didn’t have to be alone, just for a moment.

But with every passing minute he was absent, you grew more and more worried. By the way his expression changed when he answered his phone, you had assumed it was his mother’s doctor calling again. And given how long the conversation had been going on, you could also only assume that it wasn’t good news.

You found it difficult to focus on conversation with JJ and Prentiss when your mind was too busy wondering if Spencer was okay, if he was upset or frustrated or needed to talk to someone. Your sense of self-preservation screamed at you to get a grip, to stop caring about him in distress, but you couldn’t.

And the most frightening thing was that you didn’t even _want_ to stop.

So when fifteen minutes had ticked by, and when Morgan and Hotch had returned to your group, you found yourself staring at the glass door Spencer used and hadn’t even registered that Prentiss was saying your name until she’d repeated it several times.

You whipped your head around to face her. “What?”

“Uh,” Prentiss began, huffing a laugh, “you just seem a little distracted there, Y/N.”

You blinked. “Sorry.” And then, before anyone could inquire further, you added, “It’s a bit warm in here. I think I’m going to go get some air.”

“If you go outside, see if you can find Reid. We’re leaving in thirty,” Hotch said.

You nodded with a smile and then began walking away towards the glass door. 

The door led out into a small grassy area separated from the garden by a few hedges and a metallic trellis arching over a narrow path. The entrance was a bit to the side, semi-obscured by a nearby willow tree that created a curtain of leaves before the trellis. Well placed stones decorated the walkway, and when you walked down the path and through the leaves, you were met with a circular intimate garden space enclosed by shrubbery and wooden lattices decorated by ivy. There was a stone fountain in the center with lights beneath the water, and the rest of the space was dimly lit by string lights draped delicately on the lattices and small garden lights staked into the perimeter.

And on the opposite side of the fountain, Spencer sat on one of the three benches in the area with his head tilted back towards the sky. He only looked back down when you walked towards him, the click of your shoes echoing through the space.

Spencer didn’t say anything as you sat beside him close enough that your thigh brushed against his. The two of you stared at each other for a brief moment, the only audible sound being music filtering out from the venue and crickets in the distance, and you noted how tired he seemed, without even a trace of his usual smile.

Your heart yearned to comfort him, to take his burdens and put them on yourself.

So you placed your wineglass on the stone beneath the bench and turned your head up to the sky towards the stars. “What were you looking at?” you asked.

Spencer exhaled a humorless laugh through his nose. “The past,” he answered.

“How so?”

“The speed of light is finite.” He pointed up at the sky. “Do you see Orion’s Belt?” 

You did. You nodded even though he didn’t glance at you for confirmation.

He continued, “The three stars that comprise the belt are all roughly between 800 and 1,500 lightyears away, so when we look at the constellation, we’re looking 800 to 1,500 years into the past. Each of the stars have their own names derived from Arabic. The western most star is Mintaka, which means ‘belt.’ Then there’s the center star, Alnilam, which means ‘belt of pearls.’ And then there’s the final star, Altnitak, which means ‘girdle.’ It’s one of the most universal constellations too; because it’s on the celestial equator, it’s visible from nearly everywhere on Earth.” 

Finally, a soft smile graced his face. “Ancient Egyptians believed that the constellation was the resting place of the soul of the god Osiris, and the Arabs thought that it represented the figure of a giant. Greek mythology is a little less definitive when it comes to Orion, though. Some say that he was put into the sky with his two dogs—” He pointed to two nearby constellations as he spoke. “—Canis Major and Canis Minor after boasting about how many animals he could kill because of how great of a huntsman he was. And so to humble him, Zeus, as the greatest huntsman, put him among the stars so that he would forever be stuck chasing the bull Taurus without ever catching him. Others say that he was killed by the scorpion that would become the Scorpius constellation while hunting with Artemis—or that Artemis was tricked by Apollo into shooting and killing Orion—and was placed in the sky as a tribute. Regardless, it’s always humbling to realize that the stars we look at today were already gazed upon and mythologized by ancient civilizations observing practically the exact same astronomical phenomena.”

His arm finally dropped back down into his lap, but his gaze remained fixed on the sky. In a quieter voice, he finished, “So, in more ways than one, I was just looking into the past.”

A stray breeze rolled by, and a shiver wracked your body. Spencer inched closer to you, firmly pressing his side against yours. Your cheeks warmed at the gesture.

“You know, I actually didn’t know the names of the individual stars, but the myth about Orion that I knew growing up had _Hera_ sending the scorpion to kill him after hearing him boast about his hunting prowess. And then Zeus, in a _rare_ act of decency—” Another smile tugged at the corners of his lips at your knock against Zeus. “—set Orion among the stars as consolation.” When he didn’t respond, you softly asked, “Do you have a favorite constellation?”

Spencer swallowed, and you watched his Adam’s apple bob. “Yeah. Lyra and Aquila.” He pointed back up to the sky. You weren’t familiar with very many constellations, so you didn’t know where he was pointing. You nodded nonetheless. “There’s a famous Chinese folktale I enjoy about two of the stars in those constellations—Vega and Altair. It’s called ‘The Cowherd and the Weaver Girl _._ ’ Do you know it? 

It sounded familiar, but you didn’t know enough to hold a conversation about it. So you shook your head, and Spencer, as always, was happy to explain.

“Altair—or _Niulang_ , which means Cowherd in Mandarin—was the youngest of several brothers, and so when his parents passed away, he was left with nothing but an old bull as inheritance, as his brothers took everything else. One day, he was sitting under a tree, playing an old love melody on his flute, when he was visited by the heavenly being Vega—or _Zhin_ _ü_ , meaning Weaver Girl. Vega was captivated by his music, and even though he was a lowly cow-herder, she visited him every day for two months, coming at sunrise and leaving at sunset, just to hear him play the same melody. But Vega wasn’t really allowed to interact with mortals, and when Vega’s mother, the Lady of the Sky, discovered where she was going every day, she dragged Vega back into the sky with her. 

“Altair was desperate to find Vega, for they had fallen madly in love with each other, but couldn’t find a way to get to the Heavens. Then, his bull approached him and began to speak. He told Altair that Vega had given him magic, and that he could take Altair to see her in the Heavens. But when they traversed the path to the Heavens, the Lady of the Sky turned the path into a heavenly river—or what _we_ know as the Milky Way. Vega and Altair stood on either side of the river and wept until Vega’s father, the Emperor of the Sky, saw their love and grew empathetic.” 

His smile became softer, distant, like he was lost in the image of the story. “And so, the Emperor built a bridge of magpies that would only appear on the seventh day of the seventh month, so that one day a year, Vega and Altair could be together. And they spend the rest of the year on their sides of the river, waiting for the _one_ day they can be together again.”

Spencer breathed a laugh and looked forward at the fountain. “Two people joined by love but separated by the stars—simultaneously fated to be together and fated to be apart. It’s an interesting paradox, and who doesn’t love a thought provoking folktale?”

“I know I do,” you answered quietly. “It’s a beautiful story.”

After a few more moments of quiet, he finally turned to face you again to ask, “Do _you_ have a favorite constellation?”

“Oh, yeah, I’m a _huge_ Big Dipper kind-of-girl.” 

Finally, you drew a genuine laugh from his lips. He dropped his head forward, his cheeks dusting pink.

And when he looked back up at you, you could still see a haunting gleam darkening his lovely face, so you asked, “Why were you ‘looking at the past’?”

The smile slowly faded from his face. He swallowed and looked back down at his lap. “I was just thinking about when I was a kid. You know, my mom used to give me these notebooks— _hundreds_ of them—that she’d already written in. She’d write poems by WS Merwin in them and songs by Bob Dylan. She liked when I memorized them. She was convinced that they were watching us, writing their art about our lives.” His face tightened, a long carried pain shining through his eyes even as a ghost of a nostalgic smile graced his face. “I love my mother. I could never resent her. But sometimes it’s hard to think about how she was… ‘somewhere else’ even during the better memories.” Then he sighed. “I’m sorry. That’s selfish, isn’t it?”

“It’s not,” you murmured back. When the expression on his face didn’t ease up, you slowly slid your hand underneath his arm to interlock your fingers with his. He immediately tensed up for a second, but when you gave his hand a light squeeze, he sighed again, relaxing and giving you a squeeze back.

And after several moments of silence, he spoke again: “Dr. Mark called me again. At first, I thought he was going to tell me that she’d had another outburst. But instead he told me that after going back on the medication regimen that _I_ approved, she’d been significantly less agitated.”

You smiled. “That’s great, isn’t it?”

“Yes, but then when I tried to speak to her, she told me that she didn’t have a son and didn’t know who I was. And I…” He blinked a few times, swallowing thickly, before lifting his free hand to rub his eyes. “I’ve thought through every single reason as to why that shouldn’t hurt—I’ve reminded myself of every neurological reason as to why she can’t help it—but it still hurts. You know, I can remember _every single thing_ I’ve read, but I would trade it away in an instant if I could just… give some of that ability to her.” A bitter laugh. “Now, it feels like she’s leaving me, too. And I don’t… _blame_ her for the symptoms of her disease. That would… that would be cruel, but I just…” He trailed off and pressed his lips together. You didn’t miss the slight tremor in his bottom lip, nor the way his face crumpled with defeat.

And at the sight of him so distraught, you felt your chest crack open. In a way, you understood what he was experiencing, the turmoil of bitterness and guilt that came from such a situation. You were all too familiar with it in your own right.

But both of your situations were so unique that you couldn’t find adequate words to express how much you wished things were otherwise for him. 

Before you could even attempt to do so, he quickly added, “I’m sorry. I’m sure you didn’t come out here to hear about—”

“Don’t ever apologize, Spencer,” you cut him off. He blinked in surprise at your firm tone of voice. Then, you softened a bit and tightened your grip on his hand. “I’m happy to listen whenever you need an ear. Never apologize for that.”

With water lined eyes, he nodded, whispering, “Okay. Thank you.” And though you gave him the space to say anything else he might want to, he remained silent.

So the two of you sat next to each other on the bench wordlessly, bodies close together, fingers intertwined, and listening to the sound of crickets in the distance and revelry from within. You could hear guests jumping and screaming the lyrics to “Sweet Caroline” by Neil Diamond.

The image in your head made you want to laugh, but you couldn’t. The idea of Spencer sitting alone out here, forced to simmer in his own demons, while the rest of you drank wine and chatted and laughed together made your heart heavy. It didn’t matter that it had only been for around fifteen minutes; he had been hurting _alone_.

He had tolerated you during every time you’d lashed out at him without holding it against you, literally _cleaned your apartment_ while you were sick, and you didn’t even _think_ to check on him earlier.

And that made your gut twist and your heart ache for what you wished you could fix. If you could take all of his pain away from him and add it to your own, you would have. You were so worried about helping him that the usual fear that accompanied such a strong emotion didn’t even register within you.

But the typical course of action—i.e. fucking after a case to distract one another from whatever festered within you and to burn off excess emotion and energy—no longer seemed appropriate. To be fair, when this all started, you had both willingly been using each other to not only get off but to hide away from the world momentarily. But now it seemed wrong to frame it in that light—to _use_ each other. You didn’t want to _use_ him like that anymore, and it seemed like he didn’t either. And sex was easy; sex was a tool. 

Genuinely comforting another person, however, had never come easily to you. And you wanted to do something so _desperately_ to occupy his mind for a little bit, just so he could have respite from himself, but you didn’t know what to say, nor what to do. It wasn’t like you had a piano handy to teach him to play another piece.

But then the song changed from “Sweet Caroline” to “Stay” by Maurice Williams and the Zodiacs, and you got your idea.

You stood up abruptly without letting go of his hand, and he jolted in surprise. “Come dance with me,” you said. As the words fell from your lips, you felt your face warm in response to yourself.

“What?”

“You heard me. Dance with me.”

His lips parted, but no words followed for a while. He swallowed and then quietly said, “I still don’t know how to dance.”

You furrowed your brows. “Still?”

Something reminiscent of grief flashed on his face. Spencer shook his head to himself. “I don’t know how to dance,” he corrected.

“It’s easy. Promise.” When he didn’t move, you added, “Spencer, they’re playing ‘Stay’ by Maurice Williams and the Zodiacs. It’s a classic. Don’t make me go dance by myself inside.”

Spencer just stared at you. There was an added layer to the darkness in his eyes now, like a long repressed memory had suddenly resurfaced. You knew the look.

You swallowed. Had you made things worse for him, instead? You wouldn’t put it past you. Maybe you should leave before you made it worse.

So you nodded and took a step away, dropping his hand from yours. You pressed your lips together, the back of your neck burning with embarrassment. What you would have given for a _single_ nurturing bone in your body, for the ability to take his pain away from him like he seemed to so easily do for you. 

You glanced at your watch. “We’re, um, we’re leaving in a bit, so you should come back inside soon.”

You’d barely turned away before you felt his hand on your shoulder. He turned you back to face him, slowly reaching down to pick up your hands again. You let him decide how this proceeded, and when he angled his left arm and put his right hand on your waist, you placed your right hand in his and positioned your left on his shoulder.

And then you began dancing slowly, stepping side to side in sync with each other. Spencer seemed stiff, so you took the lead. But by the time the two of you got into it, the short song was already coming to a close, and the DJ faded the end of the song into the beginning of Elvis’ “Burning Love.”

You picked up your pace, turning in the space and moving your feet faster. When you glanced back up at Spencer’s face, you found some of the tension easing, but his brows were still furrowed in concentration. He was looking down at his feet.

“Hey,” you said, drawing his gaze towards you again, “stop thinking so much.”

“Sorry… it’s just that, you know, dancing uses almost every major region of your brain, especially ballroom dancing, because everything it requires mentally: complex mental coordination, split-second decision making, _sensorimotor_ coordination, and also a fair amount of social interaction. Ballroom dancing is actually excellent for increasing mental acuity. Some studies say that it improves memory and strengthens neural connections.”

You stood up on your toes, lifting his hand up and prompting him to spin around underneath it. He couldn’t stop the chuckle that fell from his lips, and your own chest warmed in response. “Okay, we’re not ballroom dancing, so what does that have to do with us right now?”

Spencer stumbled over his feet as you returned to the original pose, and you bit back a laugh. “I was just thinking about how some people can actually learn to dance purely through watching, since even watching activates the same parts of our brain that would direct our physical movement. And—” 

He cut himself off with a laugh as you spun him out this time, his free arm flying out while he stumbled over his feet yet again. When he caught on to what you were doing, he spun clumsily back into you, his back against your front, and your arms wrapped around torso. Your face was pressed into his back, and the two of you swayed for a few beats in that position. When you finally twirled him to face you again, you could see a smile spreading across his face.

“—I don’t think _anything_ could, uh, actually help me learn how to dance well,” he finally finished.

You grabbed hold of his other hand and extended your arms, leaning back. He copied you as you spun the both of you around this time. “You have to just let your body move; let your motor cortex do its thing. You and your _genius brain_ are thinking too much.”

He opened his mouth to respond, and you could see a sassy quip forming on his tongue. But then he blinked and pressed his lips together tightly, like he thought better of the comment or like he was about to say something he shouldn’t. Instead, he ended up answering, “Dancing _requires_ critical thinking.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. _Learning_ to dance requires critical thinking, but actually performing needs unselfconsciousness to be successful,” you answered. “That’s how your body _flows_ .” The two of you came together again, and this time, he lifted his arm up to twirl _you_ around. “ _See_ , you’re a natural!”

Spencer ignored your praise. “Even still, that doesn’t make me _wrong_. Your brain is still operating and rapidly going through steps and possibilities and factoring in environmental aspects that weren’t present at practice. Critical thinking can also be subconscious” he countered, quirking an eyebrow and dipping you.

You tossed your head back as you went down and giggled. “Are you _really_ going to argue with me right now?” you asked as you came back up. He pulled you up with a bit too much force, so you stumbled forward with another laugh. 

His hands flew to your waist to right you, and he turned you to face him again. Your fingers instinctually interlocked behind his neck. “No, of course not,” he answered with a smile.

And then the two of you just stood there, bodies close together, simply relishing in the presence of one another.

You hadn’t actually noticed that the two of you stopped moving until you heard the song change yet again to Billy Joel’s “This Night.” The slower beat and softer tones of the song, contrasting with the lively rock of Elvis, made you more self-conscious of how close the two of you really were, of how intimately you were positioned.

Billy Joel’s voice—slightly muffled from the distance—rang out in the space.

_Didn’t I say_

_I wasn’t ready for romance?_

_Didn’t we promise_

_We would only be friends?..._

The rest of the team would come looking for you soon, or at the very least, would start wondering where you were. You made to take a step back, but Spencer's hands tightened on your waist, holding you to him.

“One more song,” he requested quietly, “and then we’ll go find the team.”

You looked deep into his eyes. The turmoil that had been there when you first found him had lifted, and where it once raged, there was that softness that only ever appeared when his eyes were trained on you again. You found it difficult to deny him of anything when he looked at you like that. “Okay,” you murmured back. “One more song.”

You slid your hands down to his shoulders, leaving one perched there while the other found his hand. The two of you took up a much slower pace this time. You were hardly on beat, but neither of you seemed to care, nor could either of you tear your gaze from the other.

_Now that you’re here_

_It’s not the same situation._

_Suddenly, I don’t remember the rules anymore…_

You felt the silence between you and the intensity between your gazes down to the core of your being. It sparked something deep within you. But before you could think much of it, Spencer quietly spoke again: “Thank you for coming to find me. And for… dancing with me, I guess. I’m sorry if you were having a better time inside.”

You shook your head. “I told you not to apologize, Spencer. And I don’t really enjoy weddings, so honestly, I’m better off out here than in there.”

He tilted his head to the side a bit and studied you, his eyes piercing through every layer and examining a part of you that you couldn’t identify. And then, he asked a question that made your heart drop to your stomach: “Have you ever thought about getting married one day?”

You opened your mouth to respond, but nothing came out. You were waiting for the inevitable pain, the flurry of horrid memories of that dark period of your life to reclaim you again, the deep shame that always accompanied the reason why you and Alexander never got married. You were waiting to feel that beast within you buck against your soul again.

But it never came.

Perhaps if you were alone and drowning in your own thoughts you would succumb to that darkness, but around Spencer, in the soft lighting of this secluded garden area and with his warmth radiating towards you, you felt safe enough to actually exist with that reality. To acknowledge that as part of your history.

And then you finally realized it was because Spencer didn’t know. 

Spencer didn’t look at you like Alexander had, like Boucher did, like even Preston did at times. There was an apprehension with them when they looked at you, a concern, an approach that made you feel like glass at times simply because of how they viewed you. And you hated it because all it did was reinforce what you already knew, what you couldn’t escape no matter how hard you tried.

But Spencer only knew the woman you wanted him to know for the most part—the one who had separated herself from that old life. He didn’t have to know the ugliest parts of you. Even if you transferred, he’d _never_ have to know. 

You’d make sure of it, just so you could make sure he never stopped looking at you like that—like you were still whole even when you were fractured into a million separate pieces.

So finally, you quietly answered, “Once, when I was younger.”

He thought about that for a few beats. “And now?”

You shrugged. “I don’t think that’s in the cards for me—‘true love’ or marriage or any of that. And I’m okay with that. I prefer that, honestly.”

For the first time, when you thought more on those words, on “being okay” with your loneliness, you weren’t entirely sure you believed yourself.

Before Spencer could inquire further, you asked, “What about you?”

He went silent again.

_But this night you’re mine._

_It’s only you and I._

_I’ll tell you to forget yesterday._

_This night we are together…_

“Once,” he finally said in a voice so soft you could have mistaken it for a phantom wind blowing by. “Now, I don’t know.”

“Well then,” you answered, equally as quiet, “I suppose we’re similar in that regard, aren’t we?”

“I suppose.”

And that was the end of the conversation. The two of you continued swaying, rocking from foot to foot, and dancing in a slow circle. And just as the song began its crescendo to the end, Spencer leaned down, dropping his forehead into the crook of your neck and wrapping his arms around your torso. You tightened your grip on him as well. You closed your eyes and sighed into his shoulder. 

And when the song finally did end, when it moved back into an upbeat party song that you hadn’t heard before, you quietly whispered, “Did you know that Billy Joel used the main harmony and melody of the second movement of Beethoven’s _Pathétique Sonata_ for the chorus of that song?”

Spencer finally pulled away, his hands settling on your waist again. He blinked a few times, looking up in thought as a slow smile lifted to his face. “I knew I recognized the melody, but I didn’t know it was intentional.” He looked back down at you. “That’s one of my favorite sonatas.”

You smiled back up at him. “Mine, too.”

Spencer breathed a laugh through his nose and lifted his hand to your face, and just as he started leaning down to press his lips against yours, you both heard your names shouted from the other side of the shrubbery.

“ _Reid_ ! _Y/L/N_! Where are you?” Derek called.

You quickly stepped back from Spencer, and his hands fell to his sides. “Hi! Sorry, we’re coming!” you called back, your face growing warm.

Derek poked his head through the curtain of leaves from the willow tree on the other side. “What’ve you been _doing_? Did you drop your phones in the fountain, or something?”

Before you could answer, Spencer cut in: “Actually, we were busy discussing the wide reaching influence that classical composers have on modern day music. To call them all _classical_ composers is actually inaccurate, though; Pacabel’s Canon in D has been sampled by contemporary artists countless times, and he’s a _baroque_ compos—”

Derek raised a hand. “That’s cool, but we’re leaving. So take your conversation to the jet.” And just as fast as he came, he popped his head back out and walked away.

You looked up at Spencer and found his lips pressed tight together. When he caught you staring, he shrugged and said, “I, uh, I’ve found that they don’t ask many questions when you talk about something they don’t care about.”

“I always care about what you have to say,” you answered immediately, like you had to make sure he knew that you’d never dismiss him.

He smiled again. “I know.”

“Good,” you answered.

And when you started walking away, Spencer softly called, “Wait, Y/N.” You turned back to face him, raising an eyebrow to indicate that he should continue. “Do you still want to… come over when we get back?”

You paused. You’d always ended up at his apartment after cases, true, but the last case had been around New Year’s. After _that_ , you didn’t know how to broach this with him without making it seem like you were still _using_ him.

You didn’t really want or need to “use” him in that sense anymore. You really just wanted him, and you were glad that your arrangement extended beyond the realm of simply “distraction,” now.

And you didn’t let yourself think too much about the fact that you knew that what you and Spencer had was no longer just “an arrangement.”

So you answered, “Yes, as long as that’s okay with you.”

Spencer smiled again. “I wouldn’t have asked if it wasn’t, would I?”

Then, he started walking towards the trellis that would lead you back into the main garden area, and when he passed by you, he took your hand in his. You started at both the gesture and how natural it felt, but didn’t pull away. Instead, a smile of your own graced your face, and you followed him out.

And so the two of you, hand-in-hand, walked back into the real world, out of this little bubble that you’d created in the small, intimate space, only letting go when the team came back into view.

And when you finally got back to the jet just before 10pm, you sat down in your usual seat. Spencer took the seat beside you, brushing your leg with his knee as he went. You had to bite your bottom lip to conceal your smile.

On the entire ride home, you didn’t think about your own case once, nor did you feel quite as guilty for allowing this small piece of happiness into your life. When the jet landed, and you headed to your car with Spencer, your phone rang in your back pocket.

You didn’t pick up.

You should have.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had such bad writer's block during this chapter!! I'm sorry if it's not the best. There was going to be smut at the end, but I just got so burnt out writing this one that I'm just going to put it in the next chapter.
> 
> Also, I have no idea how to dance at all lol like I have my own esoteric knowledge that I use for this fic and I do a fair amount of research if I need to, but holy shit I have no idea how to write dancing, so I'm so sorry if that sequence was also really awkward.
> 
> As always, thank you for reading :)


	20. One Need Not be a Chamber to be Haunted

You ended back up at your apartment instead of Spencer’s after you realized that you didn’t have any clean clothes left in your go bag for the next day. Neither of you minded the change of plans. In fact, Spencer seemed thrilled at the prospect of spending yet another evening at your apartment, and you were more than happy to have his company.

When you arrived at your apartment, though, there wasn’t the frenzy that typically accompanied your after-case-rendezvous. In the past, there was nothing but hands roving every part of each others’ bodies and clothes flying to the floor the second you walked over the threshold of the door. But this time, there was no rush.

You both took off your shoes by the door, and you led him into your bedroom, where you extracted your phone without so much of a glance at the screen, turned the ringer off, and plugged it into the charger by your nightstand. You unpacked your bag, throwing soiled clothes into your laundry hamper while Spencer sat perched on the edge of your bed. Neither of you spoke; he just tracked you with his eyes as you walked from your closet and dresser to your bag to repack it. 

It was a comfortable silence with no need for small talk.

But, eventually, Spencer grew tired of watching you and stood, walking around your room and taking in the photographs on the walls. Your room and office were the only rooms in your home with personalized touches—the former being to create at least one space of sanctuary for you, and the latter being to remind you of why you kept doing what you were doing.

Out of the corner of your eye, you watched Spencer flit from photograph to photograph and to the small plants you kept on one of the windowsills before he finally asked, “Why do you have so many pictures of plants?”

“I like nature, and I think they’re pretty,” you answered.

“Fair enough.”

When you finished repacking your go bag and saw that he was staring intently at the monochrome photograph of dune grass you had hanging over your dresser, you quietly added, “I took most of these pictures on Long Island.”

He looked back over to you. “ _You_ took these pictures?”

“Yeah,” you said with a slight smile, “most of them. That one is from the beach.”

And to anyone else, it would have looked like a random stock image, but to you, it was an inconspicuous piece of that past life. The photo was taken right by that blue house on the beach you still saw in your dreams, on the path bordered by dune grass. You remembered taking it vividly, too: You were seventeen, and Elizabeth had been going through a photography phase. You’d stolen her camera for the afternoon. You could practically hear her whining on the deck for you to hurry up. In response, you’d told her to shut up just as you took the photo, and she had come storming down the steps and onto the path to try and forcibly take it back from you. Just as she had reached for you, you’d threatened to tell your parents about how she had snuck out of the apartment the previous week to go to a party with her friends.

Elizabeth had always been the rebellious one of the two of you, never having been drowned by the pressures to succeed that you had felt, and a raging extrovert. Attending an upscale private school in Manhattan her whole life meant that Elizabeth was always surrounded by friends growing up; you, having been homeschooled and taking college courses at NYU during the summers to make sure your brain’s insatiable appetite for knowledge and intellectual stimuli was adequately met, could never say the same for yourself. And while the two of you got along for the most part, that fundamental difference was perhaps the greatest source of contention between you two.

And, god, what you wouldn’t give to even fight with her one last time.

But as your own homage to her, you had a few of her photographs up on the walls. Elizabeth had loved to photograph animals, and so, the few monochromatic song birds that decorated your room were courtesy of her.

You took a sharp inhale and stood from where you were kneeling beside your bag on the floor, nudging it with your foot against the wall. “I feel gross from the jet, so I’m going to take a shower.” Then, you paused, adding in a lower voice, “You’re welcome to join me if you’d like.”

Spencer furrowed his brow. “That seems unproductive. Though, I suppose it would save water. Showers are actually the main culprit of ‘behavior waste,’ a form of waste completely due to human habit. It’s estimated that roughly twenty percent of showering time is considered ‘lost time’ because it’s not productive to the task at hand.”

“Spencer, I meant sex. In the shower.”

When his eyes widened slightly, you chuckled and walked into the master bathroom. 

Your shower was a narrow walk-in built into the far corner of your bathroom, with a marble shower bench built against the left wall, and floor to ceiling glass comprising the front and right wall. There was a large rainfall showerhead in the ceiling as well as two regular showerheads that came out of the far wall with a detachable showerhead in between. In the center of the far wall, there was a recessed shelf where you kept your body wash and hair products.

You opened the glass door and stepped in just as Spencer appeared in the bathroom doorway. “Well? Yes or no?” you asked.

“I’m not opposed; it’s just that a surprising amount of emergency room visits are due to bathroom related incidents. Tiled floors, water, and intercourse just seem like a dangerous combination,” he answered, crossing his arms and approaching the glass wall.

You gestured around the shower and then to the shower bench. “I mean, you’ve used my shower before, but would you like to check the space yourself to determine whether or not it’s _really_ dangerous?”

Spencer thought for a moment before nodding, stepping into the shower and turning to face the bench with his back towards you. He looked around the wall and brushed his hand against the marble while sliding a sock-clad-foot against the floor tile.

Meanwhile, you looked between him and the detachable showerhead and gave yourself two seconds to decide on your course of action.

1…

2…

You bit down your grin and quickly grabbed the showerhead while turning its corresponding valve, and you held it towards Spencer so that the spray of cold water hit him in the back.

A high pitched yelp left his mouth as he jumped, his body seizing momentarily from the shock. Then, he whirled around, struggling to hold back a smile, and held his hands out to block the spray. “Are you _serious?_ ”

“ _Totally_ an accident!” you laughed.

“Wha—we’re still _dressed_! Stop it!”

“No.” You waved it around like a hose, effectively dousing him from head to toe.

He instinctively jerked to the side, holding his hands out farther while raising his front leg as if it would at all block your assail. Then, he started laughing and stalked towards you. “ _Give it to me_ ,” he demanded.

You turned your back to him as his arms came around you to try and grab the showerhead from your hands, holding it far from your body while keeping the water spray turned towards the two of you. You shrieked a laugh as he tried to turn you around to take it from you. “You’re going to have to try harder!” you teased, now pressing a hand against his chest while keeping the other hand with the showerhead extended in the opposite direction.

He pulled away for a second to brush his hair—now plastered to his head—away from his forehead. And then he grinned, even as you turned the water back on him. He quickly turned to the rest of the valves on your shower, throwing caution to the wind as he turned all of them—the ceiling showerhead and the two wall showerheads—all the way on.

You squealed as the initial cold water from the faucets started hitting you on all sides, and in an attempt to save yourself, you dropped the detachable showerhead, letting it swing against the wall, and tried to run out of the shower. Spencer blocked the exit, and the sudden stop made your bare feet slip out from underneath you.

Before you could tumble back against the shower floor, however, you felt his arms quickly wrap around you as he bent over to hold you up. Your arms instinctually wrapped around his neck, and you yelped as he jerked you back up.

And then the two of you paused, both slightly out of breath, faces mere inches apart.

“I warned you,” Spencer said quietly, barely audible over all of the running water and with a smile still splitting his face. “Tiled floors and water are a dangerous combination.”

His sodden bangs tickled your face, and the water, now quickly warming up, streamed from his head down to yours. You blinked droplets from your eyes. “And what about if we add that _third_ thing?” you whispered.

Spencer’s eyes dropped from your eyes down to your lips, and then back up. His smile softened. “I’d presume that’s even _more_ dangerous.”

“You’re a doctor. Don’t you think we should test your hypothesis in the name of science?”

“Oh, well if it’s for _science_ , then how can I refuse?” His eyes dipped back down to your lips as he raised a hand to cradle the back of your head, finally leaning down to kiss you.

You started out slow, simply melding your lips to his as the water continued to run down your bodies. But when you arched your body into his, he pulled you closer to him, his arm tightening around your waist. He backed you up against the far wall, just beside the shower bench. His body shielded yours from the assail of water from above.

His hands slid down to where your blouse was tucked into your slacks, pulling it out from its confines, over your head, and tossing it to the other side of the shower. The glass was beginning to steam lightly, and a quiet moan fell from your lips as Spencer began trailing kisses down your neck. You, in turn, began undoing his plum colored tie. He pulled away for a second just to yank it completely off his neck. 

When he leaned back down to your lips, he whispered between kisses, “Your shirt was silk, wasn’t it? You know it’s ruined now.”

Your answer was cut off by a sigh as he raised his hands to cup your breasts through your bra. “I don’t care,” you finally breathed back, quickly running your hands up his chest and unbuttoning his light purple shirt. The fabric was plastered to his skin, and you could see the contours of the toned planes of his body. 

As you shed him of his shirt, he unclasped your bra and let it drop to the floor, and he licked and sucked his way from your lips, across your jaw, down your neck and the valley of your breasts, before he took one of the stiff peaks of your breasts into his mouth.

Your head fell back against the wall, sighing and threading your fingers through his hair as best you could with the water. He made quick work of your pants and trailed his tongue down your torso to your naval until he was kneeling before you. 

Spencer tugged your slacks down your legs, your panties plastered to the fabric, and peeled them from your legs before discarding them on the other side of the shower with the rest of your clothing. Then, he quickly wrapped his lips around your clit, sucking hard as he wrenched a moan from your lips that echoed through the chamber, and raised a hand up between your legs to slide two fingers into you.

Your knees nearly bucked out from underneath you as your back arched against the wall. Your fingers tightened in his hair as he picked up a relentless pace flicking his tongue against your clit and rubbing the anterior wall of your core. You couldn’t stop your hips from rolling against his tongue nor the pants and moans that tumbled from your lips. He chuckled softly, and the vibrations drew yet another sharp gasp from you.

He continued finger fucking you and lapping your clit until you felt that familiar knot begin building in your abdomen, but you tugged on his hair and whined, unable to form a coherent sentence through the pleasure. You barely managed to gasp his name, a plea for his attention.

Spencer pulled his face away from you and looked up but kept his fingers deep inside you. He continued his ministrations, angling his hand so that his thumb was now working your clit in tight fast circles. “What?” he breathed, blinking water out of his eyes as the shower continued to rain on you both.

“Spen—I just—oh, _fuck_ ,” you moaned. Your head fell back against the wall again and your hips desperately rolled against his hand of their own accord. You couldn’t stop your body from racing towards that precipice, and when your legs began trembling at the effort it took to hold you up, Spencer stood, not breaking rhythm for a second.

He wrapped an arm around your waist, and your fingers dug into his shoulders. Spencer took your lips with his again, swiping his tongue across your bottom lip before sucking it lightly. He swallowed every moan that came past your lips with his kiss.

Your grip on him tightened as you whimpered, “Don’t stop, _please_.”

Spencer huffed a laugh against your lips, and his free hand went to the back of your thigh and hoisted it up. Balancing on one foot, you curled your leg around his hips and squeezed your eyes shut just as the knot in your abdomen finally began to unravel. 

Your moans echoed through the room, and Spencer continued to fuck you with his fingers through your orgasm, drawing every gasp and moan from your lips without easing up his pace in the slightest. And when your walls stopped clenching around his fingers, when your head fell against his shoulder and you tried desperately to gulp down air, he gently released your leg.

Your head fell back against the wall, your legs still shaky, and Spencer leaned away from you to stick the two fingers that were just submerged in you into his mouth. You groaned at the sight of his eyes fluttering shut as he savored the taste of you on his tongue, wasting no time grabbing for his belt buckle and quickly shedding him of his pants as well.

You wrapped your hand around his shaft and slowly pumped up and down. One of his hands flew out to the wall behind you to steady himself as a groan tumbled from his lips. You swiped your thumb across his head, and his hips jerked forward into your hand.

Without a moment of hesitation, and with one last roll of his hips, Spencer hooked his arms around your thighs and hoisted you up against the wall, lining himself up with your entrance.

And then he paused.

“Spencer, _please_ ,” you whined.

“Please, what? What do you want?” he asked before kissing you deeply again. He teased you with the head of his cock, barely slipping into you.

“ _Really_?” you breathed. You wiggled your hips towards him as if it could hasten him, but he just pulled back out completely.

He planted a kiss on your jaw before leaning forward to your ear, whispering, “You’re smart. Use your words.”

With a frustrated groan, you grabbed his jaw with your hand and brought him nose-to-nose with your face. He blinked in surprise. “And you’re a _genius_ ,” you hissed. “You should know to just fuck me already.”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he chuckled and kissed you, quickly thrusting into you and pinning you back against the wall. 

Your breath hitched, your moan getting cut off by a gasp, as he began fucking you against the wall of the shower. His head fell into the crook of your neck, and you could feel his breath heavy against your skin as he groaned. The sound of skin against skin, of breathy moans and desperate pants, and of whines of bliss echoed through the space—a symphony of pleasure conducted by you and Spencer.

You believed that there was no greater music compared to this.

As you felt yourself rapidly approaching that precipice of pleasure again, your legs squeezed tight around his hips. Spencer brought one hand from your thigh and began rubbing tight circles around your clit again. You were still sensitive from your earlier climax, and your body curled into him.

Your second orgasm took you by surprise, ripping through you like a red hot blade. Your nails tug into the skin of his back, and as your walls began swiftly clenching around him, Spencer let out a deep groan into your shoulder, hissing a quiet obscenity to himself, his hips stuttering against yours while he finished deep inside you.

The two of you stayed like that for a few beats, panting underneath the spray of water, before he slowly slid out of you with a quiet groan and placed you gingerly on the ground.

Your knees immediately bucked under you, but for the second time that evening, Spencer easily caught you with a laugh, his arms wrapped tight around your body.

You leaned your forehead against his chest, smiling to yourself. “Thanks,” you said against his skin.

“No problem.”

You put your hands on his shoulders and stood. At this point, the glass was practically entirely fogged, and you breathed a laugh to yourself. “I do actually have to shower, though. You’re welcome to stay here and join me.”

His brows furrowed, a smile still tugging at the corners of his lips. “For _more_ sex, or do you actually want to—”

You cut him off with a roll of your eyes, reaching out and gently nudging his bicep. “To _shower_ , genius.”

“No, I know,” he said with a laugh, glancing down at his feet. “I was just joking.” His cheeks were dusted with pink, and you couldn’t tell if it was due to embarrassment or because of the sauna-like-air of the shower. 

You reached out for his hand and tugged him back fully underneath the spray of water, and, while turning off the rainfall showerhead and the detachable one in favor of the two wall showerheads, you asked, “What’s your best estimate of how much water we just ‘behavior wasted’?”

“Oh, you _really_ don’t want to know,” he answered, reaching for your soap.

You bit down your smile and shook your head to yourself before beginning to wash yourself. Afterwards, you both dressed in your pajamas and brushed your teeth side-by-side with Spencer at the other sink of your master bathroom. Your hair was wrapped in a towel on your head, and neither of you could stop stealing glances of the other in the mirror.

You were glad that your mouth was occupied, halfway obscured by toothpaste foaming at your lips. Otherwise, you would have been grinning like a fool at him.

You had never anticipated this—finding this domestic comfort in Spencer. You’d never anticipated finding domestic comfort in _anything_ , really. And just for a second as you spat your toothpaste out into the sink, you thought that perhaps this was something you really _could_ have without guilt.

And then, reality.

When you finally picked your phone back up to set your alarm for the morning, you felt your heart stop.

Seven missed calls from Preston.

Over a dozen text messages with some variation of the same message: _Pick up. Now_.

Spencer’s voice made you jump. “Everything okay?” he asked.

Your eyes darted between him and your phone. He had one flannel clad knee on your mattress and was holding the comforter up to slide underneath.

More than anything, you wanted to get into your own bed with him, to feel the soothing warmth of his body against yours lull you into the deep slumber that it had on New Year’s, but…

You shot him a tight smile. “Yeah, yeah, I just… I just have to make a call. I’ll be right back. Don’t wait up for me. It might, um—it might take a while.”

You didn’t wait for him to answer as you stalked out of your bedroom, flipping the switch on your way out and gently shutting the door behind you. Spencer quietly called your name in confusion as you went, but you didn’t pay it any mind, instead running down your hallway to grab your office key from its place beside your front door.

It was only when you had barricaded yourself in your office that you dialed Preston’s number back.

He picked up after the second ring: “ _Fuckin’_ finally _! Where the fuck have you been?_ ” he demanded.

“We just got back from a case. Relax. What happened?”

“ _Don’t tell me to fuckin’ relax, Y/N. And I know that’s a fuckin’ lie. I ran into your boss when I went looking for you, and he said you’d left as soon as the plane touched down. Now, look, I don’t give a shit what you’re doing, but I need you to pick up when I fuckin’_ call you.”

“Do you have any other obscenities in your arsenal that you’d like me to hear, or are you just going to yell ‘fuck’ at me all night?”

Preston laughed bitterly on the other end of the phone. “ _Don’t get smart with me, sweetheart. It’s been a shit couple of hours, and trying to get you to answer hasn’t made it better_.”

You flopped down at your desk chair with a heavy sigh. “Are you going to tell me what I’ve missed? I couldn’t find Maryanne the _last_ time you asked, and I doubt I’m going to—”

“ _Y/N, Samantha Lark is missing_.”

You felt your blood go cold, and your body seized up. “What?” you whispered.

“ _Samantha Lark from witness protection? We went to where she’s staying in Rockville in November. You damn near broke your hand punching a tree—_ ”

You cut him off, frantic: “I remember who Samantha Lark is. How the fuck is she missing? Since when? How do you know?”

As Preston began answering, you put your phone on speaker and laid it on your desk, quickly logging into your desktop and pulling up her file that you’d “borrowed” from the Witness Protection database.

“ _Marshal Thompson called me a few hours ago asking if I knew anything. I’m not supposed to be telling you, but she missed her monthly check in with him yesterday. He couldn’t get a hold of her, so he went to her house. The place was trashed, Y/N—furniture overturned and blood on the floor, trashed. Forensics just came back and confirmed it was hers._ ”

“Oh my god,” you whispered to yourself. “Shit.” Then louder: “ _Shit_!”

You bolted up from your seat, and your chair wheeled out across the room, knocking into a miscellaneous storage box on the floor. You ran your hands down your face as your heart rate picked up. Your breathing grew shallow.

“Preston, what if we did that to her,” you asked, your voice growing thick. “She was in WitSec for, what, four years with no issue until we looked into her. This _can’t_ be random.”

“ _We don’t know that, sweetheart. We went almost two months ago. That’s a long enough time._ ”

“She was still in the FBI’s missing persons database until us, and there was _barely_ anything about her in the WitSec files. Thompson said it himself: they kept her in the database so that even if it got hacked, she’d still be untraceable. We practically exposed that she was found and alive. God, we probably exposed _where she fucking lived_.”

“ _Okay, Y/N, placing blame isn’t going to help us find her. I need you to look into CCTV footage around the Rockville area and use your anti-trafficking software to see if you can find her_.”

You rubbed your eye with the heel of your palm. “Fuck, fuck, you’re right. It’s just… _God_ —” You quickly wheeled your chair back to your desk and rapidly began typing. Your left monitor filled with scrolling code as you started up the facial recognition software you’d helped develop, and your right monitor filled with CCTV footage from every single CCTV system in Rockville, starting with the areas closest to where she lived. Your center monitor held a progress bar as it scanned every piece of footage.

“ _Take a deep breath, Y/N. We still don’t even know if her case is related_.”

“Right, it’s just she was taken from the same fucking area with the same MO with the same slaughtered family at the same _age_ as my case and _every other case_ that we’ve tied to it. Couldn’t be related at all,” you rushed out.

Preston was quiet for a few moments. “ _This was the only one with obvious trafficking. Yours, and every other case, didn’t have that_.”

“That we know of,” you whispered.

You both sat on the phone in silence as your program worked. It would take significantly less time that it would when he asked you to look for Maryanne (just to ease his own anxieties, but you couldn’t find her in the end) because there was far more footage and cameras to go through in New York City than in Rockville. But when the program finally finished running with absolutely nothing to show for it, you pressed the heels of your palms into your eyes again and shouted, “ _Fuck_!”

“ _Nothing?_ ” Preston asked quietly.

“Nothing,” you whispered in response. “Preston—”

“ _No, don’t, we’ll… fuck, okay, I’ll tell Thompson and make some calls tomorrow. There’s not much else we can do outside of the bureau._ ”

You wanted to fight him, but you knew he was right. It didn’t ease any of the turmoil inside you, though.

Just when things were starting to feel a little bit brighter, too. It seemed that the world would never let you breathe for too long.

“Okay,” you said, shutting down your program. “I’m sorry it took me so long to answer. I was… busy.”

“ _It’s fine, sweetheart. I’m sorry for losing my temper. You just usually respond right away. Guess I was a little worried, too._ ”

“You’ll get grey hairs like that, you know.”

Preston chuckled. “ _Sweetheart, in our line of work, we’ll all be grey by the time we’re thirty-five._ ”

“I guess so.” You put your desktop back in sleep mode and leaned back in your chair, suddenly drained despite the light happiness that had previously taken over your body. “Listen, I’m going to try and get some sleep. I’ll come with you to talk to WitSec tomorrow, okay? We just… _god_ , I just hope she’s okay. We’ll find her. We will.”

“ _We can only hope. Goodnight, Y/N_.”

“Goodnight, Pres.”

And you hung up the phone, your heart heavy and your mind clouded. You hadn’t given Samantha Lark a second thought since she refused to help you out. How egotistical were you to not even consider the ramifications it could have had for her?

How the fuck could you even be an agent without thinking about it?

Maybe you were no better than the higher-ups, than _Boucher_ , who cared about little more than the FBI’s image. Maybe, in your own right, you were just as conceited—just as narcissistic. 

You shook your head to yourself and stood again, dragging your feet as you headed back to the office door. You locked the door behind you, placed the office key back by the front door, before walking back into your room.

Spencer had turned one of the nightstand lights on and was sitting up in your bed. He had a book from the small bookshelf in your room open on his lap. When he saw you looking at it, he pressed his lips together in a smile and said, “ _The French Lieutenant’s Woman_ by John Fowles.” He held the worn book up to show you. “I like your annotations. They’re very… _sparkly_.”

You kept many of your favorite books in your room. Many of them were books that you’d also had to study in your summer courses, others were from your parents’ collection, and the rest were taken from your childhood bedroom. _The French Lieutenant’s Woman_ was from the last category.

It was also the only book you read and reread in the month leading up to your break-up with Alexander, and the few months following. Fowles punches through the fourth wall in the novel, speaking directly to the reader and explaining his characters to them, and the things that he had to say to his audience resonated with something dark within you. If Spencer continued reading, he would come across newer annotations made with a plain dark blue pen, with one passage circled and highlighted and annotated more than the rest: 

_You do not even think of your own past as quite real; you dress it up, you gild it or blacken it, censor it, tinker with it… fictionalize it, in a word, and put it away on a shelf - your book, your romanced autobiography. We are all in flight from the real reality. That is a basic definition of Homo sapiens_.

You had reread that particular quote countless times in those months, when you wallowed in a darkness so deep and so lifeless that it terrified you even now to merely think about it. Even as a child, this quote had struck you.

 _We are all in flight from the real reality_.

You just wished that you’d never learned how true that quote really was, how delusional you had once been to think you could ever escape your reality. And now, when you looked at Spencer, you wondered if having him here with you meant that you were still grasping at that delusion.

You shook your head again and mumbled, “Yeah, I was twelve when I first read it and liked glitter pens.”

Spencer paused as you slid under your covers and closed your eyes. “You were reading Fowles at _twelve_?” he asked.

You opened your eyes again and trained them on Spencer. “And you were probably reading his novels at nine. Why does it matter?”

“It doesn’t. Your notes about the fatal Victorian dichotomy were just quite astute.. I was just…” He trailed off, narrowing his brows in confusion at your bruque tone and cold demeanor. “Is, uh… is everything alright?”

“Yes,” you answered immediately. You turned your back to him and tucked your arm under your pillow, holding the comforter close to your body and shutting your eyes again. “The alarm is set for 7:30am, just so you know. You can keep reading if you’d like, but I’m going to bed. Goodnight.”

Spencer was quiet for a few moments. “Goodnight,” he said softly.

You could hear Spencer get off your mattress to replace the book onto your shelf, and after he turned the nightstand light off and settled back into your bed, you fell into a fitful sleep.

***

_You found yourself in a dark warehouse. Above you, hanging lights were flickering on and off, and exposed wires sparked as electricity coursed through them. When you looked down at yourself, you found that you were dressed in a bright red evening gown that hugged your figure and accentuated your best features._

_Immediately, you felt bile rise in your throat._

_You hadn’t been here in so long—here in this place that represented so many deaths, in this place that knew pure evil, in this place that smelled like decades of rotting had culminated into one repugnant odor._

_That scent was forever burned into your nose._

_“No,” you whimpered, “please.”_

_And your voice—still high-pitched from youth, even at eighteen-years-old._

_Just as they always did, your legs began moving of their own accord, even as you desperately screamed for them to stop. They carried you down this corridor which vacillated in and out of darkness and to a tiny office space at the end._

_Somewhere in the warehouse, someone began repeatedly humming only the first two lines to_ Gentile Allouette.

Alouette, gentille alouette...

_You begged to whatever force that made you routinely walk through this hell to stop, to save you, to have mercy._

_But it never did._

_The door to the office opened, and the flickering lights from the corridor shone in, perfectly illuminating an office chair with a woman perched in its seat._

_No, not a woman—a teenage girl in a beautiful cream gown. She had her back towards you. All you could see was a tangled mess of hair._

_“Elizabeth,” you whispered._

_There was no response._

_Then, a little louder: “Elizabeth!”_

_No response again._

_And then, with tears streaming down your cheeks now, with your legs trembling underneath you, with your voice cracking from sheer terror, you shrieked one final time: “ELIZABETH!”_

Alouette, je te plumerai… 

_And the chair began spinning to the left. Slowly._

_So slowly, creaking as it went._

_And when Elizabeth finally faced you, you fell to your knees as an unholy shriek lifted from your chest, your body heaving at the effort it took just to keep itself from crumpling into nothing._

_For when Elizabeth faced you, you did not see her smiling face nor signature eye-roll. You didn’t see adolescence frozen in a moment of time._

_You saw greying skin, eyes wide with indescribable terror, her mouth hanging open, and worst of all, a red, bloodless slit that extended from one of her ears to the other across her throat. All of the evidence of her vitality had dripped down the front of her gown, now forever stained scarlet._

Alouette, gentille alouette…. 

_You screamed._

_And screamed._

_And screa—_

You bolted upright, nearly crashing your forehead into your knees as you curled yourself into a ball. Your chest felt tight, and even though you were gulping down air as best you could, you couldn’t breathe. It was like the world itself had decided to withhold oxygen from you. Your body was shaking beyond your control, trembling down to your nerves, and your eyes, brimming with tears, burned.

You were a ghost in your own body, as well, and though you felt the torrent of terror ripping through you mercilessly, you also couldn’t physically feel _anything_ —not the sheets on your skin, the weight of your pajamas on you, not even Spencer’s light touch on your shoulder. You could barely hear him repeating, “What’s wrong?” over the blood roaring in your ears, over the sound of _Gentille Alouette_ playing on repeat in your mind.

You just pressed your hands against your ears, a pathetic whimper flying past your lips.

There were only a few things that could even endeavor to help you in these moments, to bring you back from the warehouse.

You hardly registered Spencer’s presence, only aware of the fact that he was, indeed, awake. You grabbed for your phone on your nightstand, holding down the home button for Siri and garbling in an incoherent voice, “ _Play Chopin’s Nocturne in E-Flat_.”

After a few seconds of processing, the nocturne began playing quietly throughout the room. You placed your forehead back into your knees, keeping your back completely to Spencer, and after clasping your fingers around your neck, you quietly began reciting the avenues of Upper Manhattan to yourself from East to West.

First. Second. Third. Lexington. Park. Madison. Fifth. Central Park West. Columbus. Amsterdam. Broadway. West End. Riverside.

And then from West to East, you continued repeating the avenues most familiar to your youth, reminiscent of a better time, of a safer time in your life.

Over and over and over again, mindlessly, while at the same time, focusing on the nocturne playing in the background, letting it slowly drown out the sound of _Gentille Alouette_ and take you back to this time, this place, this moment. On some level, you were aware of Spencer watching you. In any other situation, you would have been humiliated.

But you were too busy trying to remember how to breathe, how to feel your own body, to really care.

You weren’t sure how much time had passed until enough of the wave had passed for you to feel the bed underneath you again, for you to be able to breathe without feeling like you were drowning in oxygen, but eventually, as it always did, it passed. Even if your hands still trembled, even if your eyes still burned with tears, even if your chest still ached, it passed.

Slowly, you reached out to your phone again to turn off the music, and you sat straight.

Then you turned to Spencer and said, “I’m sorry for waking you up. That hasn’t happened in… a while.” You had yet to look him in the eye for fear of what you might find there.

“Don’t apologize,” he said quietly. There were several beats of silence before he spoke again. “Those were grounding techniques for PTSD, weren’t they?”

You set your jaw, forcing yourself to whisper, “Yes.” And then: “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Okay, you don’t have to,” he answered. “That’s a lovely nocturne, though.”

You just nodded.

While a beautiful piece, that particular nocturne was also the only piece of music that seemed to restore any semblance of sanity to you in these moments. When panic stole your breath, when the world felt like it was crumbling around you, when the air around you seemed devoid of precious oxygen, you focused on its gentle melody for however long it took, letting it lull you back into reality. The last time you’d needed it for such a purpose was on New Year’s Day, in your kitchen, listening through headphones while Spencer slept. 

After Preston had asked you to track Maryanne, to see if you could find her just to make sure she was okay, you had told him it would take all night. New York City was a vast place, after all, but when you checked on it the following morning, an hour and a half before you even had to be awake for the day, and had come up with nothing, your mind had started spinning irrationalities and worst case scenarios while ruminating over it in the shower.

And so, while you answered emails in your kitchen and began brewing espresso and coffee, you had been listening to the nocturne on repeat to keep your anxieties at bay. You’d jumped when Spencer came into the room not because he had startled you, but because you felt that he would somehow know what you were doing.

And you knew better than to be ashamed, but you couldn’t help it. You hated feeling weak, at the mercy of a force you couldn’t combat no matter how hard you tried, no matter how much time had passed.

It was easy to underestimate how terrifying one’s own mind could be, sometimes.

And you hadn’t had that particular terror in quite a while. It was the only one that seemed to elicit such a strong reaction from you anymore, probably triggered by Samantha Lark’s disappearance and the weighing guilt on your mind.

“Can I do anything?” Spencer asked.

You shook your head, still refusing to meet his gaze. You brought your knees to your chest again and laid your chin on them.

Out of your peripheral vision, you could see Spencer tilt his head to the side. Then, he quietly said, “Do you want a hug? It could help in increasing oxytocin, dopamine, and serotonin in your body.”

The word “no” was poised on your tongue, but you couldn’t seem to say it. Instead, you slowly lifted your head from your knees and finally turned to look him in the eye. It wasn’t like you could pretend that _didn’t_ happen.

But where you expected to find pity and sympathy raging in his eyes, where you expected to find him looking at you like you were the fractured soul that you truly were, you found understanding. You found openness. You found that he still looked at you like you were something worth looking at, like you were still the key to all the world’s treasures, like you were whole.

If anything, he just looked a little sad, like he was distressed over the fact that he couldn’t do much to unpack your burdens.

And maybe if Spencer knew the extent of the darkness inside you, that gaze would change, but for right now, his eyes held nothing but warmth—nothing but that home you so desperately wished you had. You were so exhausted of traveling aimlessly, of feeling the elements of the cold world batter against you without shelter.

There was shelter with Spencer, and maybe…

Maybe you weren’t still grasping at that delusion with Spencer. Maybe you weren’t “in flight from the real reality” with him, but simply trying to navigate it with him instead.

And so, even though rationality screamed at you to move away, to curl in on yourself instead like you usually did after these moments, you tentatively nodded.

So when Spencer opened his arms to you, you couldn’t stop yourself from throwing your arms around him. He slowly sank back down into the mattress, and with your head on his chest and with his arms wrapped tightly around you, the two of you settled back down for the night.

And when a lesser terror jolted you from slumber yet again not even an hour later, his arms just tightened around you, and his body curled into yours. He gently kissed the top of your head and rubbed your back until you drifted back off and dreamt of nothing at last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lol this chapter was supposed to be around 3000-4000 words and it ended up at 7000 so that's always fun.  
> As always, thank you for reading! the story is about to start picking up very very fast :)  
> 


	21. Those Who Know Her, Know Her Less

Spencer had already been awake for fifteen minutes when your alarm went off. The sun was just starting to rise, and warm gray light filtered in through your curtains, just barely illuminating the space. He could hear gusts blowing by outside. If he looked out the window, Spencer knew that he would be met with dreary gray clouds indicative of an impending storm and trees shaking violently in the winds.

He hated the way he felt after waking up, often plagued by the lack of saliva flow in his mouth at night that let the naturally-occuring bacteria there flourish and the buildup of sebum on his face that made him feel greasy. Were he at home, he would have gone about his usual routine, which meant immediately brushing his teeth and hopping into a cool shower.

But he had refused to move, afraid of drawing you from your slumber.

Spencer was lying on his left side, and his arms were wrapped tightly around you—his left arm wrapped around your shoulders as your head rested on the junction between his arm and chest, and his right arm wrapped around your waist. You had a leg hiked over his hip, and your left arm held him close to you, like you were afraid to be alone even in sleep.

He knew the feeling.

But when you had shot up in bed in the middle of the night, breathing so hard that it sounded like every inhale shredded your lungs with glass and trembling so violently that he could feel the mattress shaking beneath him, his brain had shut off for a few seconds. He hadn’t the faintest clue what to do or how to help; he hadn’t even known what was _happening_. And then he’d caught a glimpse of your face before you turned your back to him completely, and he’d frozen completely.

He’d seen fear in every form throughout his career at the FBI. He’d experienced fear _himself_ in far too many forms throughout his _life_. But none of his experiences could have prepared him for that look on your face.

 _That_ was a look of true terror—with glazed over eyes that indicated that you had been transported to a past horror.

But when you had laid your head between your knees and interlocked your fingers behind your neck, hiding away like a child would, while playing comforting music and reciting what he assumed to be familiar street names, for _half an hour_ , he finally understood. 

And when you'd refused to meet his eyes afterwards and instead cast your gaze down towards the sheets, your face twisting with embarrassment, he'd felt his heart break. He was familiar with the shame that accompanied disorder; he'd felt it in his own way many years ago, and truthfully, still felt it when he looked back on that time in his life. It was one thing to feel that shame himself and half heartedly tell himself that struggling and disorder were nothing to be ashamed of, and quite another to see a person he loved experience that same shame.

Neither mental injury nor disorder was anything to be ashamed of, and he _knew_ that you knew that. But believing it for oneself was always more difficult than convincing similarly-afflicted-others of it and was far more easily said than believed.

He was eternally grateful that you had turned to him for whatever little comfort he could offer you, though. That you had not built a wall when he handed you the final piece of the bridge he’d built between you. He should have been satisfied with just that, with knowing that he was now trusted enough to be privy to this side of you, but he couldn’t be.

Spencer could not stop his mind from trying desperately to figure out what had happened to you to develop such a diagnosis.

His hypothesizing was cut short when the alarm on your phone went off.

You gasped and bolted to a seated position, wrenching your body from his arms and going rigid.

Spencer sat up with you as you reached over to your nightstand to shut off your alarm. Then you sighed and stared ahead of you. You blinked a few times, but your eyes remained empty.

“Good morning,” Spencer tried quietly.

You didn’t even look his way as you whispered, “Morning.”

You curled your knees up and dropped your forehead into them, groaning softly. Then you lifted your head to vigorously rub at your eyes. When you finished with that, you blinked a few times and stared ahead yet again, looking no less unfocused or vacant.

“Shit,” you murmured to yourself. You didn’t say anything more as you stood from the bed with another quiet groan and walked out of your bedroom.

Spencer followed you but stopped at the end of the hallway. He watched as you listlessly wandered around your kitchen on autopilot, turning on your espresso-coffee machine. As the machine began whirring and the water began heating, you walked past him and headed back to your room.

Spencer followed you again, this time, into your bathroom, where you were staring into your shower at the clothes left discarded on the floor, still sopping wet.

“Are your clothes dry-clean only, or can I wash them normally and hang them to dry?” you asked. Your voice was monotonous and slightly hoarse.

“If you put them in a plastic bag, I can just… take them with me.”

You shook your head. “No, actually, I’ll get someone to take care of it. Don’t worry about it.” Then, _finally_ , you turned to face him. “Do you want to take a shower? I can move them now if you do.”

Well, he _did_ , but he also didn’t really want to leave you alone when you just seemed so hollow, like your body was inhabited by nothing but a ghost of yourself. He’d seen you tired before, but this was something else entirely. You looked like you were looking straight through him. “I’m fine,” he said instead. A bit more cautiously, he added, “Are _you_?”

You raised a hand to rub your brow before dragging it down your face. “Yeah. This always happens after…” You gestured back to your bedroom. “I’m just out of it. I’ll be fine.” 

“Okay,” he answered, and as you turned to your sink and began running cold water, bracing your elbows against the counter and letting the water run over your hands. He watched a shiver run through your body. He joined you at the second sink, and in the midst of washing his face, tentatively asked, “You said that hadn’t happened in a while?”

You stilled. “Yeah.”

“Was there… a particular rea—”

You straightened up, your jaw clenching and your eyes falling shut. “Spencer, please don’t,” you cut him off. 

Spencer pressed his lips together. “Okay. Sorry.”

And that was that. The two of you got ready in silence. Spencer couldn’t stop himself from watching you go about your morning routine in an exhausted daze, how you winced when you had to bend over, like your muscles were sore.

He couldn’t say that he was surprised. A certain degree of dissociation was a fairly common after-effect of PTSD episodes or panic attacks. And knowing this about you now put several other aspects of yourself into context: your inclination towards excessive alcohol consumption at times, your reactions to certain cases or locations, your inability to open up… 

Spencer just hated that he felt helpless to do anything.

And more than anything in the world, Spencer hated feeling helpless, especially when someone he loved was involved.

Then, when you were both ready to head out the door at 8:10, you poured an alarming amount of both espresso and coffee into a travel mug and packed the sodden clothes from the shower into a plastic laundry bag before heading down. You were dressed a bit more casually than you were most days, wearing a soft navy blue sweater with your black slacks instead of your typical ensemble of a fine blouse and blazer. In the lobby, you walked up to Thomas’ desk and placed the bag on it with a tight smile.

“Can you send this to the cleaner’s while I’m out?” you asked. Spencer noticed the way you pitched your voice higher, the way it became softer, when you spoke to Thomas.

And Thomas smiled back (but not before giving Spencer a skeptical onceover that made him shift on his feet). “Of course. I’ll drop them back off in your apartment when it’s done.”

You gave your thanks before striding out of the lobby, Spencer trailing behind you, and headed to your car. 

As you slid into your seat, Spencer asked, “Are you okay to drive?”

“Yep.” Your tone was sharp, and then, as if you noticed how harsh you sounded, you stiffened. After a few moments of silence, you sank back into your seat with a heavy sigh. “I know I said that it hadn’t happened in a while, but it’s far from the first time. I’ll be fine, Spencer.”

He must have looked unconvinced, because when you turned your foggy gaze over to him, you eased some of the tightness from your expression. “And, um, it’s been an even longer time since it’s happened in front of someone else. Thank you for just… being you and not… thinking less of me.”

Your voice carried the essence of a long-borne pain, and it seemed to Spencer that you had to force the words from your mouth—not because your thanks was dishonest, but because the vulnerability in the truth of that statement was frightening. Like you were made to believe that such a vulnerability would not be met with kindness.

And, given what Spencer had discovered so far about your history, he wondered if your ex-fiance played a role in that development.

Spencer had to fight the rage that coursed through him at the mere thought of that.

But he finally said, “Nothing about you, or whatever happened to you, would make me think less of you.”

The corner of your lip tugged up into a sad smile, and your gaze shifted to the dashboard. You just hummed in response.

Spencer could tell that you didn’t believe him when he said it, that you thought that there was something so atrocious in your clouded history that it would turn everyone away. Spencer doubted that it would, but still, he couldn’t help that flash of curiosity run through him again. He couldn’t ask, though. He knew you wouldn’t tell him anything.

But as you started your car, he asked, “Can I ask one thing?”

You froze again. “Depends.”

“What is it about that nocturne that helps?”

At the very least, if you wouldn’t tell him what exactly had happened to you, he was hoping you would give him the context for the nocturne. That way, if this ever happened in his presence again, he would perhaps have some insight on how to help you.

You glanced between Spencer and the start-up message on the infotainment screen on your dashboard as your car came to life. A notice that your phone was connected to the system popped up. You sighed again, leaning your elbow on the center console and resting the side of your head on your hand. 

You kept your gaze ahead of you as you answered in a soft voice, “That nocturne is what made me fall in love with the romantic era. I learned to play it when I was eight.” A nostalgic smile passed on your face. “It was one of my favorites to play, and…” You swallowed, and then, in an even quieter voice, added, “I used to play it or listen to it when I was sad or scared as a kid, and it was one of my dad’s favorites. It just made me happy. It still does, sometimes.”

Spencer blinked. He anticipated such an answer, but he was stuck on the last part of your answer. Just by the way your voice trembled slightly, by the way you sounded a bit more hoarse, by the wistful nature of your tone, Spencer could tell that there was much more to that story. He knew your mother had passed as soon as you told him about her favorite poem when you were ill. Your voice took on a similar quality when you mentioned your father.

Were _both_ of your parents deceased?

He wanted to ask, but he knew he wouldn’t get a straight answer.

So Spencer just nodded and said, “Okay.”

You flashed him a tight-lipped smile and began driving. But halfway through the drive, the quiet hum of the radio was cut off as your stereo began playing a loud and vindictive country song that Spencer didn’t recognize. On the infotainment screen, Spencer saw an “incoming call” message with the name Christopher Preston.

Spencer didn’t even have time to register the primitive male side of himself that sparked jealousy before you answered the call by pressing down on the touch screen.

“Hey, Pres, I’ll have to call you back later,” you said curtly.

“ _Well ‘good morning’ to you too, sweetheart. I was just going to tell you not to go to WitSec to ask about Sam—_ ”

Preston’s voice was cut off as you immediately ended the call with a quick glance to Spencer. 

The same country song began playing through the car again, and you clenched your jaw, clicking an “end call” button before tapping several other things on the screen while barely taking your eyes off the road. You must have disconnected your phone from the car system, because as soon as you placed both hands back on the wheel, he heard your phone vibrating in your bag.

Spencer knew better than to ask what _that_ was about, but he couldn’t help but notice how to stiffened in your seat, how you started driving just a _little bit_ faster, how you began tapping your thumb against the steering wheel with impatience. He couldn’t stop his mind from spiraling—what, exactly, was your relationship with Christopher Preston? From what he’d gathered so far, you were obviously _close_ , close enough that Preston called you for favors in the middle of the night. He remembered that night on New Year’s, when you’d disappeared into the one locked room in your apartment, just like you had the previous night. Both times, it seemed that you came out haunted the next morning. What was it about that room? And why would you be going to Witness Protection? Who were you going to ask about? What was so secret that you felt the need to cut Preston off while Spencer was within earshot? 

He allowed himself to stew for two more minutes before asking, “Hey, can we stop off at the coffee shop by the academy first?” He hoped you wouldn’t catch his lie.

But your mind was still elsewhere. You just glanced at the time and answered, “Yeah, sure.” 

When you eventually pulled into a parking spot in front of the shop, Spencer said, “I’ll be five minutes,” and then sped into the shop.

He came here every time the line at his own local coffee shop was too long. It was most often frequented by other bureau officials and was attached to a family-owned bakery. The display case was filled with beautiful pastries and decadent sweets, but what Spencer zeroed in on was their selection of cake pops decorated to look like unicorns.

Spencer walked up to the counter and ordered two of them along with a small latte for himself. When he received his orders, he gently placed the baked goods into his bag so as to not ruin their design before heading back out to your car.

You didn’t even glance at him as you began driving again.

The two of you arrived at the academy with ten minutes to spare, but when you killed the engine, you didn’t move to get out of the car. Instead, when Spencer went to open his door, you laid a hand on his bicep, stopping him.

He turned his head to you.

“I know it goes without saying, but can you just… not mention it to anyone? Please?” you asked softly. You kept your eyes down on the center console.

Spencer shifted in his seat to face his body towards you. “I won’t, but you have to know that not a single member of the BAU would think differently of you, right?”

“Please, Spencer. Just promise me.” 

He put his latte into the cupholder in the center console and tenderly placed his now free hand over yours. You still wouldn’t look up at him. “Okay, I promise,” he said quietly. And when you _still_ didn’t move, he asked, “Is there something else?”

Slowly, you finally picked your head up. You locked eyes with him and continued, “You can say no. I won’t be offended, but… um…” You trailed off, biting the inside of your cheek and swallowing. It was as if you had to force yourself to say the words. “Would you… come over again tonight?” You averted your gaze to the dashboard. “It’s just…” You shifted uncomfortably in your seat, huffing a laugh to yourself before retracting your hand and rubbing your eyes again. “It’s a little less frightening when I’m not alone, or… when you’re around,” you finally finished quietly.

And though he knew such an event was highly irrational, Spencer was certain that if his heart swelled anymore, it would explode in his chest.

“Do you want me to stay the night again?” he asked.

“If you want to. You don’t have to.”

“I’ll stay the night, then. I just need to pick up clothes from my apartment.”

Spencer could have sworn that your face softened with gratitude, like you were relieved that he’d decided to stay overnight with you without you having to ask him. Like you were relieved to just not be alone for an evening.

And though Spencer’s heart was full at the fact that you were _turning to him_ for comfort, it also ached at the idea that you’d ever had to endure such things alone.

How long had you been left to struggle alone?

“Okay, I can stop there on the way back home,” you answered. “Thank you, Spencer.”

“Any time.”

And so, with your evening set, the two of you finally exited your vehicle and walked into the building. But while he pressed the floor to take you both to the BAU, you clicked a different button. 

He turned to you, his brow arched in question.

You pressed your lips together. Your eyes still had that foggy quality to them, but you seemed a bit more present in time. “I need to deal with something in ViCAP,” you said with no further explanation.

Spencer could only assume it had to do with what Christopher Preston had called you about, but the fact that he didn’t _know_ what was up with you brought on its own level of distress. The elevator arrived at your floor, and you flashed him a tight smile.

“I’ll see you later.” And then you disappeared as the doors slid shut.

And when the elevator finally arrived at the BAU, Spencer wasted no time striding past the glass doors and down the hall to Garcia’s office.

He was self-aware enough to realize that his continual invading of your privacy was… an _issue_ , to say the least. Not only was he practically _asking_ to be reprimanded by Hotch again if he found out, but he was violating your trust in him completely. 

And, in the car ride to the academy that morning, Spencer decided that he could live with both of those things so long as you _never found out_ about what he was doing.

Spencer had lost the woman he’d loved before, and she had withheld information about herself from him, as well. Perhaps if he had known more about her, if Maeve wasn’t such an _enigma_ to him, he would have been able to do more. He had long come to terms with the outcome of that night, but he _refused_ to lose you just because he didn’t know enough.

He would figure out your history, what had happened to you, and why you snuck around with Christopher Preston doing god knows what. He would know enough in the end to be able to help you in any way that you needed, to _protect you_ if it came to that. And though Spencer knew that such a mindset was tremendously outdated and archaic, and that you _of all people_ did _not_ need “protecting,” he couldn’t stop himself.

He’d just lost too many people. He _would not_ lose another. He couldn’t.

But when he closed the door to Garcia’s office, promptly locking it behind him, he was immediately greeted with, “ _Noooo._ No. No. No. Nuh-uh. Not happening.”

He scrunched his face up. “You don’t even know what I’m here for.”

Garcia spun around in her chair to face him, holding a hand up to him. “Last time you _slunk_ into my office like that and asked me for something, I got yelled at after you _ratted me out_ . You should be lucky that I’m even _speaking to you_.”

Spencer reached into his messenger bag and pulled out the paper bag that held the sweets. “I got you, uh, ‘cake pops,’ I believed they’re called.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Are you _bribing me_ with _baked goods_ ?” She nonetheless took the paper bag from him and looked inside, examining the product. Her face immediately softened as she took one out and held it up to her face. “Oh… they’re decorated like unicorns. They’re so cute… that’s… that’s a _very_ good bribe, Dr. Reid.”

“Good enough to employ your expertise again?”

Garcia looked back up at him, then at the cake pop, then back at him, then at her screen, and then back at him yet again before groaning in frustration. “ _Gah_ ! _Fine_!” She spun back around to face her monitors.

“Thank you, Garcia,” Spencer breathed, walking up beside her. He pulled the extra chair in the office and sat down. 

“I’m _only_ doing this because you’re _you_. What do you need?” Her hands were poised above her keyboard, ready to type.

Spencer blew out a breath as he thought. “Can you look up Y/N’s parents?

Garcia stiffened and then looked over at him. “You know, this is the _third_ time that you’ve asked me to look into her life. You _have_ to realize that it’s a little bit creepy, right?”

“Garcia, please?”

“I mean, I know she isn’t the most _open_ person, but this seems a little… _ehhh_ …” she trailed off, her face twisting into a wince. “Why do you need to know all of this?”

And when Spencer failed to produce an adequate response (because there was absolutely _no way_ that he could explain his rationale without revealing that the two of you slept together regularly, and not even _he_ wanted to have that conversation with his co-workers and friends), Garcia’s eyes widened. “Oh,” she said. “Oh. Oh my god.” Her face broke out into a grin.

“What is it?” Spencer sighed.

She scooted back in her chair so that she could spin to face him completely, pointing at him with her finger. “ _You_ have a crush. You are _totally_ crushing on her.” Then she reached out and swatted him on the arm.

“I don’t have a _—stop_!” he yelped as he dodged another swipe from her.

“ _You_ have a crush on her, and you _didn’t tell me_ ? I’m a lover of love! How could you not tell me? I thought we were _friends_ , Spencer!”

Spencer groaned and ran a hand down his face. “I don’t have a—” He cut himself off, and then tried again in a quieter voice, “I don’t have a _crush_ . That’s juvenile. And it’s… _complicated_. But could you please just...” He pointed back to her computer.

She was still beaming as she turned back to her monitors, mumbling “Getting to know the in-laws before you meet them. Classic move.” to herself as she began typing away.

Spencer listened to the sound of Garcia’s keystrokes. Then she paused, and he watched her brows furrow in confusion. She typed some more and then leaned back in her seat, her mouth half-open. 

“What is it?” he asked. His heart rate began picking up.

“The mystery of Y/N Y/L/N continues,” Garcia answered, leaning back towards her keyboard and beginning to type again. “I can’t… I mean, I found educational records, places of birth, some residencies, property records, and _some_ employment history for her parents and… her _sister_ , Elizabeth? Did you know she has a sister?”

Spencer shook his head. He wasn’t surprised to learn that you had a sibling; you tended to avoid any conversation about your family in its entirety.

“It looks like Elizabeth was a little bit of a smartypants, too. She was in her last year of high school at sixteen. She went to some fancy college-prep school in Manhattan, but… her transcript is incomplete.”

He furrowed his brows. “What do you mean?”

“There’s no graduation record, or… _anything_ after that December. And her parents’ employment histories stop, like, a decade before that, and then _everything_ about them stops after that same December.” Garcia flopped back in her seat with an exasperated sigh. “Why is everything about her so mysterious? This is just like the seven years she just… _disappeared_ . I mean, _seriously_ , what is _with_ her _life_?”

But as Spencer processed the implications of what Garcia found, he felt his heart dropping into his stomach. He swallowed even though his mouth had gone dry. “Garcia, her mom is dead,” he said weakly, and she whipped her head around to look at him, eyes wide. “Can you see if the rest of her family is, too?”

Garcia turned back to her screens and began typing rapidly. It took several minutes, and to Spencer, it seemed as if she kept turning up dead-ends in her searching. But eventually, a coroner’s report popped onto the screen.

Your parents and your sister all passed away on the same day, December fourth, when you were eighteen-years-old. 

“This is in the bureau’s database, Spencer. Their deaths were investigated by the FBI. Look.” Garcia circled a portion of the report with her mouse, and Spencer zeroed in on it. “It was headed by Director Boucher.”

So _that_ was how you knew the Director.

“What’s the official cause of death?” he asked.

“According to the report, a car accident. Why would the FBI investigate a car accident?”

Spencer didn’t answer, instead scanning the rest of the document. He’d read _many_ coroner’s reports in his career, but _none_ of them were as vague and poorly done as _this_ one. The damage to the bodies were listed _without_ any accompanying causes of injury, and even the write up of the actual supposed “car accident” itself barely explained any of the events that led to your family’s death.

The bureau had to be covering something up, and when he thought back to your reactions to certain cases—namely the serial arsonist case, after which you had somewhat snapped in his apartment—and your general avoidance for topics surrounding family, chances were you knew what had really happened

“Is there an obituary?” he asked.

Garcia typed some more before a scanned newspaper clipping took up the screen. Spencer immediately began reading.

It was a fairly standard obituary, if not a little vague, just like everything else about their death. After brief descriptions of your parents and sister—detailing little more than birthplace, education, social status, and your parents’ early careers in law—the obituary turned to you, declaring you the sole inheritor of— 

Spencer’s eyes widened. 

According to the obituary, your mother’s family had, through generations, ownership of several historical townhouses in the East and West villages of Manhattan, ones that your family had rented out with your mother as the official landlady. After her death, you were named the owner of all of them. You had immediately sold every single townhouse, each for _several_ million dollars. The only property of your family you still owned was a beach home in the Hamptons.

Though Spencer was caught off guard by the sheer amount of money you apparently had, he was more concerned with how much time this obituary spent talking about _you_ . And the dating of the article was bizarre as well; it was published a few _months_ after your family’s death, and written anonymously.

But Spencer decided to deal with _that_ headache of confusion another day. That was enough for him, because at least now he knew that whatever trauma darkened your past, whatever kept you up at night and at an arm’s distance from everybody else, had to do with your family’s death. It matched the timeline of everything else he knew about your history, and though he didn’t quite have the means of figuring out what _really_ happened on that day, he at least knew enough to be more helpful, more _sensitive_ , around you.

Even if he still didn’t know much of anything concrete, he at least knew _something_.

He patted Garcia on the shoulder as he stood. “Thanks, Garcia,” he said, turning to speed out of her office.

“Spencer, _wait_!” she called out, and he paused with his hand poised over the doorknob, looking over his shoulder.

Garcia paused, a hand in the air in his direction. “Just… don’t be an idiot about this. I don’t know what you’re trying to find, but if you want a shot with her, you can’t keep asking me to dig into her personal life. That’s not how this works, Spencer.”

He pressed his lips together and shrugged. “You don’t get it,” he answered, and then he exited Garcia’s office and shut the door behind him.

And when he finally arrived at his desk for the day, greeted with a pile of folders and paperwork, he sat down and got to work. You didn’t get to the BAU until half an hour later, still looking slightly dazed but far more stressed than when he’d last seen you.

When you sat down at your desk with a heavy sigh to yourself, bracing your elbows against the edge and dropping your head into your hands, he quietly asked, “How was ViCAP?”

You huffed a bitter laugh. “Just _great_ ,” you answered with a bite in your tone. And, with that, you made it clear that you weren’t in the mood for conversation, so Spencer just nodded with a tight smile and turned back to his work.

He should have felt satisfied by what he’d learned today, but even though he had learned more about your family history and gained much context surrounding whatever might have happened to you—even though he _knew_ more about you than he had this morning—he felt like he still had very little idea of who you were. He still had _so many_ questions.

And, more than anything, he just wished you would trust him enough to answer them. But he would take what he had so far, and he would accept you as you opened up to him. 

But that didn’t mean he couldn’t do a _little_ more sleuthing on his own when the opportunity presented itself, and he believed the answer to _many_ of those questions laid in the one locked room of your apartment—the one that seemed to sap your vitality out of you every time you entered.

And so, he continued his planning. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this one took so long to get out! To be honest, this chapter, ch. 18, and ch. 20 were added last minute into my outline, so I've had to spend some time rearranging the progression of the rest of the story around these developments. updates also might be a little slower in the coming weeks. I'm going into finals at school, and each chapter does take a fair amount of time to write. I'm sorry about that :(  
> Also! I changed my username to match my wattpad username (which is not a sentence I thought I'd ever say, but here we are lol).  
> And if you haven't already and want to, go check out the spotify playlist I've made for this story, titled "Wild Nights!" under the username charlottemag33 :)  
> As always, thank you for reading!! <3  
> -Char


	22. Darkness is about to Pass

Garcia raised her hands up, her third glass of spiced sangria high in the air. “Again, please, if you would all be so kind,” she requested.

You rolled your eyes as JJ laughed and Prentiss sighed. In unison, the three of you reiterated with varying levels of enthusiasm, “Penelope Garcia is the backbone of the FBI.”

She grinned and took another deep sip. “And don’t _any_ of you forget it!” Then, she leaned back in her seat with a sigh and added, “You know, I _really_ like ‘Appreciate Penelope Garcia Night’.”

“I propose we make a week of it,” you quipped, and Garcia’s smile widened as she held her glass up to yours. You clinked your glasses together while JJ and Prentiss laughed to themselves.

As per Garcia’s request after missing out on the vineyard wedding case, you, JJ, and Prentiss were treating her to dinner and drinks. And after the garbage week that you’d had, you were glad to have a night out with them, even if your mind was still stuck on Samantha Lark’s disappearance.

Preston had essentially told you that neither of you could be involved in tracking down Samantha Lark. You shouldn’t have been surprised; you weren’t supposed you know of her existence in the first place, but after the terrible night you’d had, with guilt still weighing heavily in your mind, you’d nearly burst into tears of frustration in the middle of the ViCAP office, which would have been just as embarrassing as it was out-of-character for you.

You were just _missing_ something. You _knew_ you were, but you just weren’t smart enough to figure out what it was. And after two years of dead-ends and disappearances and failure, you were struggling with all of the factors now out of your control. You couldn’t help Maryanne undercover. You couldn’t present another solid lead to Boucher and ask for bureau resources. You couldn’t even help Anti-Trafficking and WitSec to find Samantha Lark. 

You were useless, again. Unable to help, again. Forced to watch without being able to take real action, again. 

It was making you restless, and it stirred that long-borne darkness in you. Poked at the beast. Dared you to explode.

So keeping your mind busy and distracted was the only thing that you could really do, and fortunately for you, between Spencer and this night out with the ladies, you had your fair share of comforts.

But the night was coming to a close, with the four of you having finished your desserts and on your last drinks at the restaurant. Prentiss waved your waiter down and signalled for the check. Once he dropped it off at your table, Prentiss tossed her credit card into the receipt dish along with yours and JJ’s before standing up with a quiet groan.

“I’m heading to the restroom before we head out,” she announced.

Garcia immediately perked up again. “Oh, I’ll come with you!” And at Emily’s raised brows at her enthusiasm, Garcia unsubtly nudged JJ with urgency as she stood from her seat as well. “Buddy system, you know? Can’t be _too_ safe,” she added while tossing a look of feigned innocence to you. “There’ll probably be a line, too. It might take a few.” And then she all but dragged Prentiss away towards the restrooms.

You and JJ shared a look and a quiet laugh.

You rarely spent time with her by yourself, her perhaps less than Garcia or Prentiss. Even on cases you were seldom paired together.

But you shrugged and nodded your head towards her. “What was _that_ about?” you asked, referencing Garcia’s obvious attempt to leave the two of you alone.

JJ’s eyes fluttered shut as she breathed a laugh to herself, dropping her head. “Yeah, you know Penelope. She’s the world’s least subtle person.”

“Agreed.”

A slightly uncomfortable silence settled between you two. You took another sip of your sangria, wishing that the pitcher on the table wasn’t empty so you could refill.

“So, between the two of us,” JJ began at last, training her blue eyes on you, “what’s been going on between you and Spence, lately?”

You nearly choked on your drink, managing to pass it off as a grunt of confusion. You cleared your throat and asked, “What do you mean?”

“Well, to be honest, I’ve… noticed it for a little while too, but Garcia’s got it in her head that he’s got a little bit of a ‘crush’ on you. And you’ve been spending a fair amount of time together,” she answered with another huffed laugh. “We were just wondering. But I hope you know that I won’t say anything you don’t want me to. I’m, uh, not really one for gossip.”

You blinked, and your heart rate picked up. You instinctually responded, “We’re just friends.”

She smiled, her brow creasing slightly in confusion. “You can’t honestly tell me you don’t notice the way he looks at you.”

Of course you did. You loved the way he looked at you. And you knew what she was talking about. Spencer was _literally_ in your apartment by himself while you were sitting here. He’d been _sleeping over_ every night for the past few days, sleeping _in your bed_ with you despite the fact that you knew better than to not only let him do such things but actively encourage him.

You _wanted_ him there with you. His mere presence chased away the shadows that loomed over you. He filled long cold nights with comfort and warmth. He made you less afraid of yourself.

But you were still _just friends_ , even if a part of you was starting to acknowledge that you perhaps didn’t want to be _just friends_ anymore. It was not a want you could indulge, at least not until you closed your own case.

So you gave JJ a tight smile. “We’re just friends,” you repeated. What else could you say?

JJ breathed another laugh to herself, turning her gaze back down to the table. “Okay,” she said, “that’s fine. Just…” She trailed off, tightening her grip around the base of her glass. She rolled the bottom around on the table between her hands as she considered her next words. Finally, she looked back up at you. “Spencer’s had a tough break. Don’t make it tougher for him.”

Her tone left no room for questions nor discussion nor denial, but you took offense to the implications it held—that you would ever _try_ to hurt him. You couldn’t blame her for thinking you might; you hadn’t exactly presented yourself as the most nurturing individual.

But, still, the fact that it was a thought in her mind left a bad taste in your mouth. Especially since you knew that you could not be what he wanted you to be at this point in your life. You knew you couldn’t give him what he wanted.

But you just kept pretending you could.

So you just pressed your lips together and echoed for a third and final time, “We’re just friends.”

She didn’t look convinced. You didn’t try to convince her.

The two of you sat in silence until Garcia and Prentiss, at last, returned. 

After paying the bill, the four of you said your goodbyes in front of the restaurant. You got into an Uber and leaned your head back, closing your eyes with a sigh.

And when you finally arrived back at your apartment, you found Spencer lying on his side on your couch, fast asleep with the main room lights dimmed. The television was set to a nature documentary about the ocean, and David Attenborough’s quiet voice pervaded through the space. Spencer had one arm bent under his head as a pillow, his legs curled up to fit on the couch, and a soft blue light was cast on his face from the television as the documentary delved into the mysteries of the Mariana Trench. Your copy of _I Know This Much is True_ by Wally Lamb was resting on the glass coffee table in front of him.

And despite the still present guilt and worry regarding Samantha Lark, despite JJ’s words and their implications, you couldn’t help but smile at the sight of him.

You silently took your shoes off and dropped your purse off by the door before hanging up your coat and walking over to him. 

He stirred with a sharp inhale as you perched on the edge of the couch. His eyes fluttered open, and he sleepily murmured, “Hi, you’re back.”

“I’m back,” you whispered back. You couldn’t help but run your fingers through his hair, still slightly damp from a shower.

Spencer sighed and leaned into your touch. He swallowed before a smile rose to his lips, lifting a hand to his face to rub his eye. “I finally read that book. I’m trying to be more up to date with contemporary fiction,” he said, opening his eyes and pointing to the coffee table.

An amused smile spread across your face. “I noticed. Was it good?”

He laughed and answered, “I can see why Oprah would choose it for her book club, now. I, uh…” He laughed to himself again, finally sitting up. “I read it in less than fifteen minutes, but I didn’t expect it to be quite such an emotional experience.”

You stole a glance at the nearly 1,000 page book on your coffee table. _I Know This Much is True_ told the story of Dominick Birdsey, a forty-year-old man struggling to find forgiveness and healing while being the sole caretaker for his identical twin brother Thomas, a paranoid schizophrenic.

You could see why it might have struck something with Spencer.

“What’d you think?” you asked.

Spencer thought for a moment. “I expected it to be more of a drama given the opening incident, but I wasn’t disappointed with where it ended up. I don’t really… _love_ contemporary literature that delves into severe mental illness. I find that contemporary authors often romanticize it for the sake of entertainment, which is always extremely off-putting. But that was…” He trailed off, glancing down at the novel again. “That was incredibly dark, and real, and gripping, and not for the faint of heart. Three and a half out of five stars.”

“Why only three and a half?”

Spencer shrugged. “The ending felt a little bit insincere, a little bit too… _neat_.” Then he thought a bit more and added, “But perhaps that was the point. Okay. Four out of five stars, if for nothing else than for the line ‘But what are our stories if not the mirror we hold up to our fears.’”

You laughed and answered, “Yeah, Wally Lamb is pretty quotable.”

It was true, but as you locked eyes with Spencer, your mind went to a particular quote from Lamb’s debut novel, _She’s Come Undone_ : 

_If you risked love, it took you wherever you wanted to go. If you repressed it, you ended up unhappy._

You’d read that novel years ago, fairly soon after you moved to Virginia, but that quote had stuck with you. You didn’t really understand it at the time. Frankly, you hadn’t wanted to and found the notion of “happiness” relying on “love” laughable. After everything with Alexander, after believing that your ability to “love” another had been stolen from you, you were content to never understand the breadth of that quote as the average unburdened person might.

Now, though, after all this time and despite your best efforts to avoid such a feat, you wondered if you were inadvertently beginning to understand it at last.

But then JJ’s words echoed in your mind, and you quickly cast the thought away, clearing your throat and standing up. You held out a hand for Spencer. “Come on. I’m going to get ready for bed.”

You went about your nightly routine while Spencer settled into your bed, and you joined him about half an hour later.

It was just past 11pm, and you couldn’t recall the last time you’d consistently went to bed before midnight. Honestly, with Spencer staying over, you’d expected both of your terrible sleeping habits to worsen the other’s, but it appeared that just as Spencer acted as your own dream catcher, your presence seemed to lull him into a deeper slumber as well.

The fact that the two of you slept together in more than one way every night also probably helped.

But as you straddled Spencer’s hips, tenderly kissing him with one hand buried in his hair and the other braced against the mattress to keep you balanced, you couldn’t quiet the disarray in your mind.

JJ had a right to be skeptical of you, of your “intentions.” You couldn’t keep indulging in this fantasy, especially when everything you’d spent so long chasing was in limbo. Even against your best intentions, even if you’d never actively _try_ to hurt him, you knew you would. That was just how you operated, and as soon as the other shoe dropped (and you _knew_ it would), it would get unbearably messy. And if Samantha Lark became yet another ghost story, another Missing Person without justice, you weren’t sure what you would do. Could you even live as you had been knowing that you might have led to her— 

Spencer pulled away from you, gently pushing you up, and asked, “What’s wrong?” 

You blinked. “Why do you think something’s wrong?”

He breathed a laugh and slowly began sitting up, leaning back on his hands just as you settled back on your heels, your knees still on either side of his hips. “You, uh… physically withdraw when something’s weighing on you, like you’re trying to make yourself smaller. And I can tell just by the way you’re kissing me, honestly. I’d tell you how connected physiology and psychology are, but I’m sure I’d just be telling you things you already knew.”

You should have known that Spencer would notice, but what could you say? It wasn’t as if you could tell him about Samantha Lark (even if you _wanted_ to), and you couldn’t lament to him about the tribulations of your own case. Both of those would require a larger conversation, one you knew you never wanted to have with him. Even if you _did_ want him to know that part of you, even if you were allowed to disclose the case to him, you were certain you’d never be ready for the “My Entire Family was Murdered” conversation.

Or maybe you would just never be ready for his view of you to change.

Yes, tragedy colored _your_ perception of the world, but sometimes, you felt that it colored the world’s perception of you. You didn’t need it to change Spencer’s perception of you, too. 

Quite frankly, the only reason that _Preston_ even knew, the only reason that he was as close to you as he was, was because he’d endured something similar and had drunkenly told you first within hours of meeting you. 

Like had called to like. Broken to broken.

But just as he was your rock, he was also a mirror in many ways, and you weren’t fond of your reflection most of the time.

Spencer’s voice drew you from your thoughts. “Did I do something?” he asked softly.

“ _No_ ,” you answered immediately, interlacing your fingers behind his neck. “You’re perfect. You always are.”

“Then what is it?”

You swallowed. The rational voice in your head told you to tell him to stop sleeping over after tonight, to stop sleeping in your bed with you, to stop holding you close to him every night as you fell asleep. It told you to erect a wall between the two of you before you inevitably hurt him. It told you to tell him to stop touching you so gently when you were tangled underneath your silken sheets, caressing every curve of you like you were something precious, something worth care.

But you just couldn’t. You didn’t want to. And you didn’t have the mental space to ponder how selfish that made you.

Instead, you thought about your “arrangement” with Spencer—no longer much of an arrangement at all, it seemed, but a state-of-being you shared. You thought about how this had all just started as a means of distracting each other from the horrors of your career, about how the gentle hands that slid tenderly across your body used to pull and grab and squeeze you with reckless abandon with dominant undertones. The _more_ that had grown between you now was enough of a distraction that neither of you needed personas to lose yourselves in; you simply now lost yourselves in each other, as you were.

But you wondered if that combination would be enough to give you respite from all that ailed you.

So you said, “It’s just been a long week. I have a lot going on right now.”

“I’ve noticed.”

“So I would love to not think about any of it for a little while.”

“Oh,” he said. His brows furrowed slightly. “Why didn’t you just say that earlier?”

“Well, I…” You trailed off, warmth rising to your cheeks. You didn’t pass judgement on either of your sexual inclinations, nor were you ashamed of your own, but asking outright yourself was still a little embarrassing. “I just don’t… I mean… I didn’t…”

As you fumbled, Spencer shifted his weight onto one hand while raising the other to your face. He brushed a lock of hair behind your ear before sinking his fingers into your hair and yanking your face towards him.

You let out a sound of surprise at the sudden movement, your lips crashing into his, but you quickly recovered and raised your hands to the sides of his face to meet him with the same fervor. 

One moment you were straddling his hips while you inhaled each other, and the next you were flipped onto your back, your wrists pinned by his hands on either side of your head, and his knee was wedged between your legs, right up against your core. 

You instinctually rolled your hips against his knee, a quiet moan lifting from your lips as you relished in the delicious friction. You could already feel yourself saturating your panties.

Spencer tightened his grip on your wrists and, after nipping your bottom lip and drawing another sigh from you, trailed his lips down your neck, where he dragged his tongue across your skin. He continued licking and kissing and sucking on your neck hard enough to leave bruises in his wake. In the moment, you couldn’t care about the inconvenience they would pose. You were too busy grinding yourself against his leg. 

Then, he continued his path to your collarbone peeking out from the collar of the oversized shirt you wore to bed. Finally blocked by the cloth, Spencer released your wrists in favor of grabbing the hem of your shirt, roughly lifting it up over your breasts, where he resumed his assail.

You arched into him, a proper moan finally echoing through the room as he took one of your nipples between his lips and sucked, swirling his tongue around its stiff peak. Your hands flew to his shoulders, eager to touch him, but as soon as you made contact, his own hands grabbed your wrists again and pinned them back against the mattress. 

He moved his knee away from you (much to your frustration) and lifted his head from your breast long enough to say, “Don’t touch me unless I say you can.”

You didn’t need to be told twice.

You nodded your obedience, and a smile flickered on his lips before he dipped his head down to attend to your other breast. He kept his leg away from your core but still between your legs so that you couldn’t even cross them to try and create your own friction. His teeth grazed the tip of your nipple.

A pathetic whine passed your lips. “Spencer…”

“So impatient,” he murmured against your skin, finally continuing his trail down your stomach and your naval. His hands had to release your wrists, but instead of threading your fingers through his hair like you typically would, you opted for grabbing at the sheet underneath you.

You hadn’t put on pajama bottoms, so Spencer just quickly slid your panties from your legs and settled himself between them. But rather than touching you where you wanted him most, he dragged his tongue up the inside of your left thigh, and then your right. And just when he neared where you were already practically dripping for him, he returned to the inside of your left thigh and lightly nipped at the sensitive flesh.

You gasped, twisting the sheets between your hands. “Spencer, _please_.”

He hummed a laugh against your skin, but finally, at long last, turned his attention to your clit. He dragged his tongue slowly up your folds, collecting all of the evidence of your pleasure on his tongue, before slowly circling your clit with it.

You tried to roll your hips against his face in an attempt to hasten him, but he kept at the same torturous pace for what seemed like an eternity. And when it seemed as if he was content with just how wet he’d made you, how _desperate_ you’d become for anything that would satisfy the pulsing ache in your clit, Spencer finally began flicking his tongue against you faster.

It didn’t take long for that familiar pressure to begin building in your abdomen. Your grip on the sheets tightened, your back arching as you whined his name and continued to grind yourself against his tongue. 

But just when you reached the edge of that precipice, just when you were about to crest that wave of pleasure, Spencer moved away from you and instead turned his attention back to the sensitive flesh of your inner thigh.

You groaned, “ _Seriously_?”

Spencer didn’t respond, instead moving from thigh to thigh, licking and nipping and sucking. After several moments, when you’d felt that knot slowly fade as your clit began aching even more, he turned back to the epicenter of your pleasure and took up his relentless pace again.

You careened back up that cliff within seconds and found yourself at the edge yet again. Your thighs trembled around his head as your back arched off the mattress, ready to take that plunge, only for him to move away again at the last second.

Something between a moan, a sob, and a groan left your mouth. You shamelessly angled your hips to try and chase his mouth, but he continued nipping at your inner thighs completely unbothered.

And the cycle continued for _five times_ in a row.

By the fifth time he’d edged you, you could feel tears pricking the back of your eyes out of frustration, your engorged clit _begging_ for release. You hadn’t wanted to beg him, but you would have done anything for him to finally let you fall off that edge.

“Spencer, _please_ …” you finally whispered. “Please make me cum.”

“What was that?” he asked into the flesh of your thigh.

You groaned. You would have rolled your eyes had your mind not been operating under the strict laws of lust. “ _Please make me cum_ ,” you reiterated, this time a bit louder.

Spencer hummed in contemplation. He slowly flicked his tongue out against your clit, and you whimpered in response. “I’m not quite sure I understand,” he answered before resuming his agonizingly slow circles around your clit. 

Your mind was so clouded with desperation that you’d forgotten his earlier instructions. One of your hands flew to his hair, threading his soft brown locks between your fingers, but you didn’t even have time to repeat yourself yet again before he abruptly sat up on his knees.

“I told you not to touch me unless I said you could,” he said darkly. His eyes roamed your body, a smile gracing his face despite your disobedience as he caught a better look of you—eyes wide with desperation, squirming slightly with how uncomfortable the lack of release had become, hair plastered to your flushed face with sweat. “Okay,” he said at last.

Spencer stood from the bed and shed his pajama bottoms and boxer briefs, his painfully hard cock springing free. Then, he lied back down onto the bed beside you as you watched. He gestured to himself. “If you want it so badly, do it yourself.”

At any other moment, you would have been embarrassed at how fast you scrambled to straddle him again.

You quickly sank down on him, and you could feel his body tense up with pleasure, a quiet groan passing his lips. He didn’t raise his hips to meet yours, instead opting to watch you fuck yourself on him. Your movements were sloppy and rushed, but within seconds, you felt yourself rushing towards that glorious end, faster than you’d ever experienced, harder than you’d ever had before. And just as you were beginning the crest of that wave, Spencer used his thumb to begin rubbing tight circles around your clit.

But his other hand grabbed one of yours from where it had been balled up on his chest, and through his own pants and groans of pleasure, he lifted both of your hands to your throat. Your fingers instinctually wrapped around the sides of your throat, just beneath your jaw, and his larger hand quickly engulfed yours, squeezing down lightly on the sides and essentially making you lightly choke yourself with him.

A deafening strangled cry left your mouth, and your vision exploded into white light as you finally came. Your body wanted to curl into itself with the intensity, but with yours and Spencer’s hand on your throat, you couldn’t move. And when your legs were trembling, and you couldn’t bear to keep fucking yourself, Spencer finally took up the motions himself. He hammered into you from below, his thumb not leaving your clit for even a second of reprieve.

You didn’t know you could even make the noises you were making, nor feel the way you felt, but you could still feel your walls clenching hard around him when he finally came, spilling himself deep inside you. Your whole body felt like it had melted and been born anew, but you watched as Spencer’s jaw clenched, his head falling back hard against the pillows, his hips desperately milking himself with you as he continued to fuck you through his own orgasm.

And when the two of you had finally come back into your own bodies, you lifted yourself off of him with a wince and collapsed onto the mattress beside him. 

This time, you didn’t even _try_ to pretend you didn’t want him to hold you close to him afterwards. You’d never been the cuddling type, but after _those_ activities, the urge to feel his arms wrapped around you was stronger than usual.

He was still on his back, his chest heaving as he took in breath after breath, and you tossed your arm around him as you rested your head on him. Immediately, his arms were around your body, and he gently kissed you on the forehead.

“Are you okay?” he asked softly.

You couldn’t help but laugh at his immediate change in demeanor. You lifted your head and rested your chin on his chest to look up at him. “That was fantastic, Spencer.”

He smiled. “I’m happy to be of service.” Then, his brows furrowed again, and he gently pushed you off of him. “Give me one second.”

Spencer stood from your bed, and you pretended to not immediately miss his absence deeply. He walked into your bathroom. You heard the faucet running for a few moments, and then it turned off.

He returned to your bedroom with a wet face towel, sitting down on the edge and gesturing for you to spread your legs.

“Oh, you really don’t have to do that. I can get it,” you insisted as you sat yourself up and reached for the cloth.

Spencer held it out of your reach. “You know, contrary to what you might think, but I do actually _want_ to take care of you sometimes. It’s not an obligation to which I feel like I must attend. I wish you’d let me.”

Your hand dropped to the mattress. Not even your pride could make you refuse that, could _deny him_ that.

So you leaned back against your pillows again, spreading your legs. Spencer gently began wiping the warm cloth up and down your inner thighs before running up your folds. You winced when it brushed against your clit, now overly sensitive, and he murmured a quiet apology.

Never did you think you’d be here. The “you” that first joined the BAU those few years ago would have gagged at the sight of this, at even the mere prospect of it.

The current “you” felt so cared for that you felt tears pricking the backs of your eyes. You quickly blinked away, momentarily confused by the sudden burst of emotion you’d felt, but no less off-put by his actions.

And when he had decided that he was finished, he set the washcloth to the side and looked back at you. His eyes had completely softened. And you couldn’t stop yourself from sitting up, leaning in to kiss him, perfectly content to stay up all night if it meant not missing a moment of him looking at you like that. 

But as your lips just barely brushed against his, your doorbell rang.

Your entire body seized up. 

And then it rang again. And again. And again. And again—like someone was rapidly pressing the button.

You only knew one person with enough audacity to show up to your apartment near midnight and do _that_.

So you scrambled off your bed, leaving Spencer to look between your bedroom door and you as you grabbed your bathrobe from your bathroom and hastily shoved it on. Spencer stood as you headed towards your door, but before he could even open his mouth to ask, you quickly said in a voice laden with irritation, “Stay here. Maybe put clothes on.” 

You strode out into your hallway, shutting your bedroom door behind you, and hurried to the front door. All the while, the echo of your doorbell filtered through your apartment.

Finally, you unlocked all three locks on your front door and flung it open. 

Preston didn’t even wait for you to move completely out of the way before he barged in. You caught a whiff of whiskey as he brushed past you, heading straight for your living area and plopping himself on the couch.

“Thanks for calling ahead of time. I love having visitors at fucking _midnight_ ,” you hissed, trailing him.

Preston looked up at you. His eyes were narrowed with annoyance, his jaw set and his body tense. “I _did_ call. You didn’t pick up. Seems to be your _thing_ nowadays.” And then his gaze dipped to your neck, and he stood up, rolling his eyes and walking past you again. “Christ. What _are_ you? Fifteen?”

Your cheeks erupted with warmth, and you couldn’t stop yourself from clapping a hand over your neck, no doubt decorated with bruises from your activities. “Is there a reason you’re here, or are you just going to be a dick?”

Preston didn’t respond. Instead, he continued pacing around your living area, lifting a hand to rub the overgrown stubble along his jaw with the other shoved deep in the pocket of his jeans. 

You narrowed your brows and took a step towards him. “Pres, what’s wrong?” you asked a bit more softly.

He finally stopped pacing and ran both hands down his face. After several beats, he quietly rasped, “I know Boucher told us to stay out of it, but I’ve been in contact with Maryanne’s supervisor up in the city. She missed her third check-in in a row today.”

Your heart stopped. “What?” 

Preston looked back over to you. His face was etched with exhaustion and fear, tired lines marring the skin around his eyes and below his cheeks, making him appear gaunt. “I tried calling you after the first time, but you didn’t pick up. Then I thought I’d just wait and see what happened” He looked down and cleared his throat. “I didn’t want you to think that her and Samantha Lark were connected. _I_ didn’t want to think that. But, sweetheart, the timing is… it’s too much of a coincidence to think otherwise.”

You stayed frozen on your spot, your mouth half open, your eyes wide.

You and Maryanne were _far_ from close, but you knew enough about her, her life, and her career in the FBI to know that if she was consistently missing check-ins, it wasn’t due to negligence. Maryanne was the best field agent in the New York City division; it was the reason you’d asked her to join your case. It was the reason you trusted her enough to be a part of it.

She’d been undercover countless times before, for a variety of different bureau operations. She was excellent at her job and highly regarded on a national level.

Something had happened to her. Something bad.

Fuck.

 _Fuck_.

“Oh my god,” you whispered. 

“Yeah.” Preston cleared his throat as he gestured down the hallway towards your office. “I need you to download whatever you’ve got on Maryanne, even if you don’t think it’s worth anything, on a flash drive. Now. Please.”

You didn’t waste a second grabbing your office key and speeding down the hallway, not even giving a second thought to the fact that Spencer was separated by a thin wall from you. You unlocked the office door, grabbed a new flash drive from one of your desk drawers, and shoved it into a USB port in the system unit beneath your desk. After a few keystrokes, your computer began sending copies of all your files on Maryanne to the empty flash drive.

“It’ll just take a minute,” you said as you turned back to Preston, now leaning in the doorway. Your voice was tight. “What are you going to do with them?”

He pushed himself off of the doorframe. “ _We’re_ going to New York right now to meet with her supervisor as soon as the office opens. I’ll pack you a bag while that’s downloading.” 

Preston turned away from you and towards your bedroom door just as your eyes widened. “ _Wait_ ,” you blurted out, sprinting into the hallway.

He craned his neck around to look down at you, a brow raised, his hand hovering over your bedroom door handle.

“I… can’t go anywhere right now,” you rushed out. “And it’s the middle of the night. It doesn’t make sense to go now. Let’s go tomorrow morning.”

“It’s not like you go to bed before 4am anyway.” But when you didn’t relent, your eyes flickering between Preston and your bedroom door, he narrowed his eyes as he finally took in your attire, disheveled hair, and flushed face.

Preston rolled his eyes. “Since when do you care about your one-night-stands?” he asked, turning back to your bedroom door and opening it as you hissed for him to stop again. He ignored you, instead poking his head into the bedroom while saying, “Hey, buddy, time to head ou—”

He cut himself off.

You froze as Preston pushed the door all the way open to reveal Spencer sitting cross legged on your bed, one of the books from your bookshelf open on his lap.

Spencer gave him a tight smile. “Um. Hi. Special Agent Christopher Preston, right?”

Preston was still for a few beats before answering in a low growl, “In the flesh.”

“I’m Dr. Spencer Reid from the BA—”

“I know who you are,” Preston cut him off. Spencer pressed his lips together in response.

“Pres…” you tried.

But when Preston turned to look at you, his brows had narrowed, and the muscle in his jaw jumped as he bit down. He ran another hand across his mouth, rubbing at the stubble again, and then rubbed the back of his neck as he looked down.

“Okay, you know what? I’ll go to New York myself,” he ground out. Without giving you a second to speak, he strode past you, down the hall, and out your front door. He ignored you as you called out after him.

“Uh—” Spencer started.

You whipped around and pointed to him. “ _Stay there_ ,” you commanded. From inside your office, your desktop _pinged_ with an indication that all of the files had been copied onto the flash drive. You ran back into your office, ejected the flash drive from your system, grabbed it, and then sprinted back out into the hallway.

In your frenzy, you didn’t think to lock the door behind you.

You slipped on the first pair of shoes you saw by the door and then wedged a sneaker in the doorway so it wouldn’t lock behind you. 

Preston was already headed down in one of the elevators, so without regard for the fact that you were completely naked underneath your robe, you ran to the stairwell and dashed down all fifteen floors. Thomas made a sound of surprise as you ran across the lobby, your flats squeaking against the marble floors, but you ignored him.

Preston had already made it to his car parked across the street.

As you crossed the street, you yelled, “Preston, _wait_!”

He paused in front of the hood of his car, turning around to face you with barely controlled irritation. Before you could get another word out, he pointed back to your apartment building. “So is _that_ why it’s been impossible to get a hold of you lately?” he spat.

You panted, trying to catch your breath. “We’re _friends_ , Pres. Why the fuck does it matter?” And when he cut you a sarcastic glance, you added, “You can’t _seriously_ be mad at me right now.”

He barked a laugh, but the smile that took over his face was anything but kind. “Actually, _sweetheart_ ,” he began, the once affectionate moniker now a weapon in his verbal arsenal, “I think I’m perfectly entitled to be pissed.” He took a menacing step towards you, jabbing a finger in your direction. You held your ground. “I work my ass off _for you_ . I stay up night after night, digging through files and sources and witness testimonies, _for you_ . I fall behind on my own fucking work sometimes _for you_ . So I can help _you_ solve this fucking _joke_ of a case. And, now, you can’t even be bothered to call me back when I need you to because you’re too busy—” He waved his hand in the direction of your building. “— _screwing_ your way through your office.” 

You clenched your jaw at his accusation, heat erupting in your face. “You didn’t seem to care when you thought it was a random one-night-stand,” you argued. “What’s the difference?”

He laughed bitterly again. “That’s not the _point_ , Y/N.” He took another step towards you, and you tightened your grip around the flash drive in your hand. “I don’t give a _shit_ about _who_ you’re fucking. But I _do_ give a shit about _why_ you’ve been MIA for the past two _weeks_ , especially now that all of this… _shit_ is going down, and you can’t even pick up the phone for long enough for me to _tell you_ ! Do you even fucking _care_ about your own cause?”

“Of _course_ I care! How could you even say that?”

“If this were _my_ family, sweetheart, then _nothing_ —and I mean _nothing_ —would distract me from hunting down the son-of-a-bitch that killed them. _Nothing_.”

“But it’s _not_ your family!” you bit back, taking a step towards him this time. The two of you were nearly toe-to-toe. “You tell me yourself _all the fucking time_ that I deserve a break, that I need to relax, that I need to go… _blow off steam_ . Now that I take a _little bit_ of time to _not_ feel like _killing myself over this_ , suddenly it’s an issue?”

“I told you that when this case was going _nowhere_ !” he shouted. “When we had nothing real to go off of, when you kept chasing your _fucking tail_ like a god damned dog, when I thought that there was _barely_ a case!”

“What, so you only started helping me because you felt _badly_?”

“ _Yes_ !” And when you recoiled from him, he let out a sigh of frustration. “You’ve been chasing a _ghost_ for _years_ , with barely _anything_ to go off of. You can’t blame me for not thinking we’ll actually get anywhere.”

You didn’t respond, still taken aback by his confession. He’d been helping you all of this time out of _pity_ , not because he’d believed in you. Not because he actually cared about you getting your family justice.

That shouldn’t have hurt as much as it did.

Preston ran his hand down his face again, pointing to your flash drive. “Are you gonna give me that or what?”

You handed it to him wordlessly, clenching your jaw.

“Now,” he began, turning his back to you and walking to the driver’s side door. “I’m going to New York to try and figure out what to do next, because now, someone _I care about_ is missing. But after this…” He shook his head to himself, looking down at his feet. “Sweetheart, you’re on your own. I’m sorry, but I’m done. Have fun with the _doctor_.” 

Without another word, Preston slipped into the driver’s seat, started the car, and began driving away.

You watched his car until it disappeared around the corner of the street, closing your eyes as you felt tears welling up, that ever familiar lump appearing in your throat again.

In a way, you couldn’t help but feel that Preston was right. Spencer _was_ a distraction; that was the entire purpose of your arrangement with him. That was what it was _built on_. But you’d never anticipated the fact that he would also distract you from the thing that should have mattered most to you, that should have taken precedence over anything else.

No, he didn’t distract you. You distracted yourself from the case. You made the choice to let it fall to the side, to yield to Boucher when he told you to stand-by, to be selfish for just a little while and try to not think about all that plagued you. 

That darkness inside you was fuel, after all, and perhaps in chasing the light you’d lost some of that drive.

You couldn’t help but think that if Samantha and Maryanne were dead, it was on you.

You’d process all of that in the morning. Right now…

Right now you just wanted to go to bed.

So with heavy feet, you dragged yourself back into the building, ignoring Thomas when he asked if everything was alright. The adrenaline was fading from your system as you rode up the elevator, and when you arrived back at your front door, you sighed heavily.

But as soon as you walked through the door, your heart rate picked up again as you found your office door wide open and your bedroom empty.

 _No_.

You sprinted down the hallway, skidding to a stop in front of the open door, and breathed, “What the fuck are you doing?”

Spencer looked up from where he was holding a family photograph in his hand. He glanced around the room, his brows knit with concern, his lips parted. “I could ask you the same thing,” he answered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello! cliffhanger! and with that, I leave you to wonder what will happen next as I probably won't be updating until after this week, earliest. I just wanted to get this last (very unedited lol) chapter out before I started grinding for finals :)
> 
> As always, thank you for reading! - char


	23. I Meant to Tell Her How I Longed...

Spencer hadn’t meant to look into the locked room of your apartment for longer than a minute. When you’d rushed out into the hallway after Preston, leaving the door unlocked, he’d intended to take a quick peak just to see what was so secretive about that room.

But once he had entered, he’d frozen completely, unable to comprehend the disarray he’d found.

Spencer wasn’t sure where to look first—at the photographs of horrific murder scenes and candid photographs of various nefarious looking men tacked to a corkboard, at the map of the northeast of the United States on the right wall with a variety of multicolored pins and post-it notes stuck to it, pages of notes surrounding it, or at the _three monitored_ desktop stationed against the center of the far wall, still scrolling with code and featuring loading bars from whatever you’d just done. Underneath your desk were several seemingly home engineered system units for your desktop. Cardboard boxes littered the floor, labels written onto the sides in black Sharpie varying from “Music” to “Photos” to “Legal Docs.” There was a connecting bathroom and a built in closet beside the map.

Spencer guessed that it had been a guest room you converted into an office space.

But what drew his full attention first wasn’t the bizarre assortment of documents and photographs lining the walls, nor was it the impressive computer setup you owned, but the collection of degrees hanging by the back corner of the left wall.

He stepped into the room to examine them.

There were four of them, hung up in a diamond shape. The bottom degree was your dual-degree Bachelor of Sciences in computer science and cognitive neuroscience. The two center degrees hanging side by side above your Bachelor’s were Master of Science degrees in clinical psychology and computational science, both earned within two years of your graduating from college. And on top was a PhD in—

Spencer blinked a few times.

You had a PhD in computational clinical neuroscience.

So you _did_ earn your PhD. Why would you keep that a secret, especially in such a specific and impressive subject?

Stationed in the corner beside your degree display was a slender L-shaped shelving unit. The only objects on the shelf were three framed photographs, all on the fourth shelf.

First, there was a childhood photo of you and a younger girl. You couldn’t have been older than ten-years-old, and you were dressed in a poofy red dress and had your hair slicked back into a tight bun. The younger girl (who Spencer deemed _must_ have been your sister based on physical similarity alone) wore a bright green dress of a similar style. Both you and your sister were grinning so wide that your eyes were practically shut.

The second photo was a candid photograph of your sister (now a teenager) and two adults that he assumed were your parents. The photo was taken on the deck of a house by the beach. Elizabeth was lounging in a deck chair with her bare feet propped onto the glass table, mouth half open in complaint and showcasing a row of braces. Your mother was standing beside Elizabeth, her hand resting on the back of the chair as she looked down at your sister with a soft smile, a glass of red wine in her other hand. A bit farther back featured your father on the telephone. He didn’t smile at the camera; rather, he looked somewhat annoyed at having his photo taken.

But the third photo is what made Spencer’s breath hitch. He picked it off the shelf and looked at it in his hands. 

The third photo featured your whole family, you included, on a velvet red carpet leading into a grand building. You and Elizabeth stood side-by-side, both of you older now, with an arm around the other, sandwiched between your parents. You were dressed in a form fitting scarlet gown, Elizabeth by your side in a cream colored princess-styled gown, and your face was split into that wide contagious grin that he’d never seen on your face in person.

And he felt his heart break a little, just like he had when he’d seen that expression the first time on Garcia’s computer screen.

Because though he’d seen you smile before, though he’d seen you toss your head back with your infectious laughter before, he’d never seen you like _that_ —happy, unburdened, at peace with yourself.

He had a feeling that whatever you did in this room, whatever you were following, whatever you were trying so desperately to solve had to do with the reason you’d lost that smile—had to do with what really happened to your family. Whether or not you had found what you were looking for, however, was still unclear to Spencer, as was what the rest of this room carried.

But before he could turn to examine the documents on the walls or the murder scenes to try and figure out what _those_ were about, he heard a breathless, “What the fuck are you doing?”

Spencer looked up from the photograph in his hands and over to the door, where he found you standing in the doorway. Your robe had been ruffled, your hair unkempt and wild, and your face glistened with sweat.

He’d been caught. The second he made the choice to step into the room rather than giving it a cursory glance, he had acknowledged the risk.

So, with a glance around the room, at the photos, the map, and the desktop monitors still alive with activity, he looked back at you and said, “I could ask you the same thing.”

***

Your lips parted to speak, but all that came out was a choked sigh as you grasped for an answer. 

What could you even say? How could you come back from this?

And then your eyes dipped down to what he held in his hand, and you pressed your lips together as you inhaled sharply through your nose. You waited for that seering panic to rip through you, the fear that always accompanied the topic of your family, but where you usually felt the pain of that fundamental wound in you, you just felt a dull ache.

And maybe it was because, after Preston, you didn’t have the energy to get mad at him for going into your private room, or maybe it was because you were still reeling with guilt from the mysteries of Maryanne and Samantha Lark, but you were surprised to find tears pricking your eyes for the third time that night.

You were just _so tired_. Of fighting. Of lying. Of treading carefully to make sure no one knew how truly deep your wounds ran.

But when you looked back up and locked eyes with Spencer, you didn’t see alarm at the contents of the room, you didn’t see a perverse fascination with the clear neuroticism you had exhibited, and you didn’t see apprehension about who you were as a person. 

If anything, Spencer just looked a little bit confused, a little bit worried, but open and ready to hear anything without passing judgement. 

And despite the fact that you were sure you looked awful—your hair a mess from your mad dash down the stairs, your face shining with sweat despite the cold weather, and with a trembling bottom lip now accompanying your surely red-lined eyes—he still just looked at you like he always had: with unabashed adoration. 

Your heart fluttered at the sight, the tiny kernel of hope you’d nestled away all those weeks ago peeking its head out from its burrow.

Spencer had taken the bricks from all of the walls you’d so carefully built around you and instead built a bridge in their wake, and there he stood, in the middle of his work with a hand outstretched to you, daring you to be brave enough to meet him in the middle. And even though a treacherous icy river rushed underneath the bridge, even though you still weren’t certain that the bridge wouldn’t shatter beneath your feet, you decided that maybe taking a step—just _one step_ —onto that bridge instead of standing on your side of the river wouldn’t kill you.

So instead of speaking, you took that step into the room. And then another. And then another, carefully maneuvering around the cardboard boxes that littered the floor. Until you were standing in front of Spencer. And he didn’t say anything when you slid your arms around his waist, not bothering to try and hide the way they trembled, and buried your face into his cotton t-shirt just so he wouldn’t see your face crumple.

Still holding the photograph, he wrapped his arms around you, instinctually placing a light kiss to the top of your head. And when a quiet sob lifted from your throat, he just moved one hand to the back of your head to gently thread his fingers through your hair.

You weren’t sure for how long the two of you stood there, but you only parted when your soft crying had turned into shaky sighs. The monitors on your desktop had dulled with inactivity, leaving nothing but a faint light to illuminate the space.

You looked up at Spencer through puffy eyes. He brought his hand around to your cheek to swipe a lingering tear away with his thumb, his eyes softening in question. _What’s going on_? he seemed to ask.

But you shook your head. Not here—not in this room that reminded you of everything wrong in your life.

And then your desktop _pinged_ , and Spencer nearly jumped out of his skin, his head whipping around to find the source of the noise.

Despite your mood and the cascade of events that night, you couldn’t help but chuckle. “It’s just an email notification, Spencer,” you said softly. 

He turned back to look at you. “Oh,” he answered, blowing out a breathy laugh. “Sorry. You just have quite the set-up over there. It’s a little bit… intimidating.”

“It’s really not. I think you’re just afraid of technology.”

Spencer laughed again, nodding his head in the direction of your degrees hanging on the wall. “Well, not all of us can be as _tech literate_ as you are, _doctor._ ”

Your body immediately seized up at the title, and your eyes fluttered shut again. “Don’t call me that,” you pleaded hoarsely. You kept your eyes shut, but you could imagine his brows furrowing in confusion just as you felt his hand brush a stray piece of hair from your forehead.

“Okay, I won’t. I’m sorry.” And when you didn’t respond, instead opting to rest your forehead against him again, he quietly asked, “What is this room?”

You stayed silent for a few moments and then sighed into his shirt. You were certain that if you told him to forget he ever saw anything, he would begrudgingly accept it as your answer and leave it alone, but…

That tiny kernel of hope for something better urged you to be brave enough to take another step onto that bridge.

So you took that step away from him and reached for his free hand. He was still holding your family photograph. “Come on,” you whispered, tugging him with you as you walked out of your office—away from this room that was a shrine to both your shame and your torment.

You closed the door behind you but didn’t move to lock it. There wasn’t a reason to keep it locked when Spencer was in the apartment anymore, or at least not for tonight. And while a part of you _was_ upset and felt moderately betrayed that he’d gone into your private space—while _fully aware_ that he wasn’t supposed to go in there—you simply didn’t have the energy to stay angry at him for it. You’d have that conversation another time.

Now, you led him back into your bedroom and motioned for him to sit back on the bed. He did so without question or comment. And when you picked up the oversized black t-shirt you used for pajamas and a pair of silk shorts from your dresser and quietly said, “Just give me one second,” he just nodded as you disappeared into your bathroom and closed the door behind you.

You took one look at yourself in the mirror and cringed.

You looked like a _wreck_.

After splashing cool water on your face for a few minutes, you hung your robe back up on the hook on the back of the door and redressed yourself. Then you put a hand on the doorknob, took a deep breath to steel your resolve, and reentered your bedroom.

Spencer lying on his back under the covers. The only light in your room came from the lamp on his nightstand, and he had dimmed it to the lowest setting so that it cast the room in a warm white glow. He’d laid the photograph of your family down on his nightstand as well.

He tracked you with his eyes as you finally joined him under the covers, turning on your side to face him. As soon as you were situated, Spencer immediately laid his arm around your waist as a comforting gesture.

The two of you stared at each other for several moments.

Might as well get the most complicated out of the way.

Finally, you said, “That’s my office. I’m… doing some work on the side with Preston. So that’s… that’s half of what’s in there.” 

His brows furrowed, his eyes squinting slightly. “What work?”

You swallowed. “It’s just… an investigation.” And when he continued to look at you expectantly, you sighed and added, “It doesn’t exist according to the bureau, but that’s what Preston was here about. There have just been some… developments, and… I haven’t… I’ve been… a little bit detached, I guess. So that’s what that was about.”

His face didn’t soften. Instead, his eyes continued searching you, analyzing you, as if trying to parse through a symbolic code. You couldn’t blame him. You weren’t exactly being the most forthcoming.

But even if you wanted to get into all of the details of the case, even if you wanted him to know _that_ portion of your horrors, you couldn’t really delineate anything—at least not as long as Boucher was still overseeing everything and allocating bureau resources to you.

And when it became clear that that was the most Spencer would get out of you regarding that, he relaxed at last and quietly asked, “Have you been… ‘detached’ because of me? That’s why Preston seemed so agitated, yes?”

“That’s what he thinks, yeah. But it’s entirely on me. It has nothing to do with you. Don’t worry about it.”

He thought about that for a few minutes. Then, Spencer cautiously asked, “Are you and Preston… or, I suppose the more appropriate question would be _were_ you and Preston ever…” He trailed off and let the implications of his words speak for themselves.

A laugh bubbled up from your throat. “No,” you answered. “We’re just friends. He’s actually the closest thing I’ve had to a ‘best friend’ in a really long time. _Ever_ , if I’m being honest.” 

The smile faded from your face as his parting words to you rang in your ear: _you’re on your own. I’m sorry, but I’m done_.

You hoped he just meant with the case, not with you as a person. You weren’t sure if you could handle losing someone else close to you.

Spencer must have picked up the added distress, because he inched closer to you and swept his hand soothingly down your back. The corner of your lip twitched up into a smile despite yourself. It was like he was giving a silent reminder that he was still there—that he’d always be there.

And the kernel in your heart swelled again. 

You slid closer to Spencer, resting your head on the junction between his chest and his shoulder. He began threading his fingers through your hair, and you gently shut your eyes. 

You had expected that, should this conversation _ever_ arise, it would be fraught and full of panic, but it was difficult to worry about all that could go wrong when he seemed just as content as you to lie in your bed for the rest of eternity. A part of you was terrified by how desperately you never wanted him to leave, by how much you _relied_ on him, but that ever growing kernel urged you to simply _let it happen_ —to allow yourself to be vulnerable.

The last time you’d let yourself get this far, you’d been destroyed, seemingly irreparably, and your ability for affection and intimacy had been stolen from you.

But Spencer was not Alexander—not in the slightest. He never pushed you for _more_ , he never forced anything out of you, and he’d never betray your trust. With Preston’s theatrics, you could understand why he would look into your office, but other than that, he never tried to _dig_ into you. He never tried to pull you apart and examine you like a psych study. 

Spencer was patient. He accepted you as you revealed yourself to him and was content with simply that.

Finally, at long last, maybe you could just accept that Spencer was safe.

So when he quietly asked if he could ask you about something else, you lifted your head up and rested your chin on his chest to look up at him, answering a quiet, “Yes.”

“You, uh…” he began, huffing a laugh as a soft smile lifted to his face. “You have a pretty impressive collection of degrees over there, all in very few years.”

You shrugged as best you could in the position. “I was just a smart kid.”

He laughed again, raising a brow in question. “That’s more than smart. I mean, between the childhood piano virtuosity, your extensive general knowledge, your academics, and the fact that you’re the most brilliant person I’ve met besides myself—” That comment earned him a roll of your eyes, to which he responded with his trademarked lovely smile. “—it just seems to me that there’s more to the story, there.”

But you just shook your head. “I was just a smart kid, Spencer,” you repeated softly.

“With a PhD in _computational clinical neuroscience_? What was your dissertation about?”

You winced, sighing as you buried your face back into his shirt. You shook your head. “It’s not important.” And when you looked up at his face again and saw that same expectantly curious look, you closed your eyes and swallowed. “I don’t really… I don’t like acknowledging that part of my life. Or, um…” You gave him a pointed look as you huffed out a laugh. “Or being called ‘doctor,’ really. It makes me feel like a fraud.”

Because though your research had been indisputably impressive and revolutionary in its time, your motivations were shameful. Even thinking back to that time of your life made your stomach flip with distaste and your heart grow heavy.

He furrowed his brows. “Why would you feel like a fraud? Would you call _me_ a fraud?”

“No, of course not, but it’s different for me.”

“How?”

You sighed again. “It’s… just…” As you scrambled to find your next words, Spencer shifted. He reached around behind him to prop another pillow against the headboard of your bed and sat up entirely.

You followed suit, crossing your legs as you turned your body towards him, and you looked down at your lap. His hand was resting on your knee in a comforting manner. You took it in yours, tracing your fingers idly down the lines in his palm.

Finally, you said, “You know, being in the FBI was the last career I ever imagined myself having?” A wistful smile rose to your face. “I was on track to be a neurologist. The _other_ kind of ‘doctor.’”

“Medicine?”

You stole a glance back up at his face, nodding, and found his eyes lit up with delight at learning this new, inconsequential fact about you. Your chest erupted with warmth despite your heavy heart. You’d just never grow tired of seeing him happy, especially when it was because of these silly little things about you.

You turned your focus back down to his hand. “Yeah, I, uh… I was at NYU for medical school for a semester right after I graduated college.” Shame heated your cheeks. “And then I dropped out to… do my own research, which I don’t really like acknowledging, either, Honestly, the only reason I even have my degrees hanging up in my office is to just remind myself that, if nothing else…” You swallowed thickly, shifting your gaze to where your family photograph was resting on the nightstand. “I think I would’ve made my parents proud. At least I _hope_ I would’ve,” you finished softly.

Spencer was quiet for a few moments, and you didn’t dare look him in the eye.

“When did they die?” he quietly asked at last.

One of the things you would always value about Spencer being a profiler was that so many things could go unspoken. You could dance around the topic, avoiding the hard words that still made your throat close up, and he would still understand.

So even as your heart rate picked up, even as you felt your hands begin to tremble again as they always did when you dove into this part of your life, you still made yourself answer. In a voice so quiet it could have been a sigh, you said, “When I was eighteen.” You nodded your head to the photograph, and he looked over at it. “My sister is also… _gone_. When, um… when they died, all of my original plans kind of died, too, you know?” You mentally cursed the waver that had grown in your voice. “It’s hard to want the future you’ve always dreamt for yourself when the people you love most won’t be there with you.”

You’d never spoken those words out loud before, even if the sentiment had plagued you for years. And you felt like something lifted in your chest at finally sharing that thought with someone.

“I understand,” he said.

Finally, you looked up at him again and were relieved to find that his eyes hadn’t softened in uncomfortable sympathy. You hated sympathy. His face just remained neutral, like you hadn’t revealed one of your greatest burdens to him.

He tilted his head to the side. “Can I ask how they died?”

The answer rolled off your tongue with rehearsed perfection. “Car accident,” you answered blandly.

At least that’s what the official FBI answer was, and what your young self had been told to say by several of your parents’ supervisors right after they were killed. Between the interviews with them and the witness reports you’d had to give and the overwhelming numbness that had taken over your body, you didn’t really care to think twice about it.

You _still_ didn’t have access to whatever covert operation they were a part of. You had tried to hack into that portion of the FBI’s database soon after you joined the bureau, but you weren’t skilled enough. Much of your own coding knowledge was self-taught, and since coding was essentially all just math and logic, you had picked it up rather quickly. But you were still messy and tended to leave a trail if you weren't careful. Changing your own file to fit the narrative you wanted to project in your professional life, however, had been significantly easier considering how accessible it was and the fact that it wasn’t hidden under layers upon _layers_ of encrypted security.

But something flashed in Spencer’s eyes at your answer, like he _knew_ it was a lie. You didn’t particularly care if he believed you or not; you wouldn't tell him about how truly deep your own trauma ran. Not yet.

You pointed to the photograph and gestured for him to pass it to you. He did so without hesitation, but still eyed you with question.

You looked down at the picture with a sad smile. “This was taken the summer after I graduated college.”

His expression changed quickly, softening. He looked down at the picture with you, and the two of you sat in silence for a few moments.

Then, he huffed a laugh through his nose, shaking his head.

“What?” you asked.

“You know, people tend to peak physically in their late twenties to early thirties. There have been a few studies analyzing how this coincides with the age of perceived ‘peak beauty.’ It’s argued that we’re at our most standardly attractive at around thirty years of age. And you’re, what, thirty-three, right?”

You nodded, biting the inside of your cheek to conceal a smile. Leave it to Spencer to change your mood on a dime.

“Right, and while I do think you’re the most beautiful woman in the world _now_ , just as you are—” Your cheeks grew warm as a soft laugh passed your lips. “—I find it absolutely criminal that you’ve always been this beautiful, even at _eighteen_ . Do you know what _I_ looked like when I was eighteen?”

“Like a stretched out baby in a sweater vest?” Spencer gave you a Look and you laughed again. “I’m _kidding_ !” You reached out and brushed a stray curl from his forehead, and even though he feigned offense at your comment, he couldn’t stop himself from leaning into your touch. You smiled. “I’m sure you’ve always been this handsome. And I hope you do know that you _are_ handsome. Extremely so.”

His cheeks tinted pink, and he sputtered a bashful laugh. He turned his attention back to the photograph in your lap, and you just smiled again.

You’d never thought you be here—just _talking_ with another person like this, revealing yourself slowly to them and being met with nothing but patient acceptance. Boucher, Preston, and all the guilt surrounding Maryanne and Samantha were but a blip in the back of your mind instead of the oppressive ache. 

You didn’t know your life could be like this anymore. You didn’t know that you _could_ have moments where the world didn’t press down on you until you were gasping for breath.

You didn’t know that you could reminisce about your life with someone else and still feel _okay_.

You were glad it was with Spencer. And for a brief, glimmering moment, you thought that maybe one day, one day _soon_ , you could tell him the truth.

You thought that maybe, regardless of the outcome of the case, regardless of whether or not you got transferred, regardless of whether or not you finally, at long last, tracked down your family’s murderer, you just might be okay if Spencer was there beside you.

But when has life ever allowed you to be so indulgent?

As Spencer scrambled through his embarrassment at your simple compliment, his ears turning red, he huffed another laugh at the picture and tried to deviate the attention away from himself again. “You and Elizabeth look almost identical here. You have the exact same smile.”

One half-second of confusion.

And then it was like someone had poured ice down your back.

“What did you say?” you asked, your voice slow and hoarse.

Spencer looked back up at you. He blinked. “You and your sister look almost identical.”

“No, no,” you responded, shaking your head. Your eyes fell shut as you slid away from him to face him more properly. “You said ‘Elizabeth.’ I never told you her name.”

He didn’t answer. He just stared at you.

“How do you know her name, Spencer?” you whispered.

Spencer’s eyes fell shut, and the warmth that had been spreading through your body just moments before vanished entirely. In its wake, your heart began racing, and you could feel a cold sweat break out along your back, even as you tried to rationalize where he might have learned it.

But Elizabeth’s name was nowhere in your apartment. All of her things and all of her parents’ things had been packed up and left as storage at your beach home, which you hadn’t been to since overseeing a moving team a month after their death. 

He couldn’t have stumbled upon it in your office. 

He had to have already known it.

“Spencer.” Your voice was clipped now, louder, demanding.

And Spencer sighed, lifting a hand to scratch his brow, and then he opened his eyes. “I was worried about you,” he started softly.

Your heart dropped into your stomach. “What did you do?”

A muscle in his jaw jumped. “I asked Garcia to look into your family.”

“You… _what_?” You could feel your breath shortening in your chest.

“It was after the night you woke up into a panic attack. And…” He trailed off, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. He sighed again and quietly continued, “I don’t want to lie to you, Y/N. We went through your file, too. The sealed one. But that was… right after New Year’s.”

_No._

_Not again_.

You didn’t say anything. Instead, you just stood up from your bed, running a hand down your face as you turned away from him, desperately trying to keep yourself from crumbling as you stood. 

Spencer stood up as well and began rounding the bed towards you. You could hear his feet padding across the carpeted floor.

You held up a hand in his direction. He stopped immediately.

And for one moment, though the two of you stood in the same room, your mind had taken you back to ten years in the past. Instead of Spencer standing across from you, it was Alexander who loomed over you, glowering. You could still feel the hot tears pouring down your cheeks, your throat raw from screaming after weeks of disuse. And Alexander had just glared at you, occasionally rolling his eyes at your words and discrediting the only truths that you had said to him in years.

You had cried for hours that night as you felt the red hot blade of betrayal slicing through your chest over, and over, and over again. You’d never forget how it felt; it was a specific yet still unbearable pain that drowned you in darkness.

But this was in the past. And you would not make the same mistakes again.

Regardless of the reasons he presented to you, you were not going to cry. You were not going to scream. Never would you debase yourself like that again, not as long as he could see you.

You took a deep breath, trying to keep yourself in the present, steeling yourself for what was to come. 

Slowly, you turned to face Spencer again. When you spoke, your voice was low. Steady. “I want you to tell me _exactly_ what you learned.”

And so, after swallowing thickly, Spencer answered, “I know everything that’s in your sealed file and the fact that you hacked into your own file to delete seven years worth of your life from it. I know about the transfer to New York City. I know your career history at the FBI…” and on, and on he went. To his credit, he seemed honest enough in his confession. The information itself wasn’t so bad initially, but when he brought up his knowledge of your past engagement to Alexander, when he admitted that he’d read the coroner’s report for your family and _knew_ that the report was covering something else up, you felt your breath hitch and a sharp pain twist in your chest. 

And though you expected the wicked beast within you to rear its head and charge at him, for it to take over your body like it normally did, you didn’t feel it.

You didn’t feel anything, really. 

At least not until you began wracking your brain, wondering _how_ you could have missed this. He had already known _everything_ you so carefully told him, feigning ignorance and interest like he was humoring a child. You were an excellent profiler; you _should have_ picked up on the fact that he was deceptively drawing answers from your lips to…

To what?

To see if you’d lie to him? 

And then you realized that the only reason that you hadn’t noticed sooner, despite all of your fears and apprehensions and traumas, was because you had trusted Spencer. And you didn’t care about the information itself when it came to him. You had spent so long _terrified_ of how learning about your past might change the way he saw you. And, evidently, it hadn’t. You didn’t actually care that he knew those parts of you. Maybe _that_ was why you weren’t really _that_ bothered by the fact that he’d gone into your office. Maybe a part of you wanted an excuse to finally open up those painful avenues of conversation with him.

You _cared_ that he had dug into you without you knowing, that he had _lied to you_ about it for weeks. You _cared_ that you had trusted him to, and believed that he would, just simply accept you as you opened yourself to him, and you had been wrong for it. You had been wrong. Again.

That realization struck you just as deep as Alexander’s apathy towards his own betrayal of your trust.

And so the bridge that Spencer had built between the two of you shattered under your feet, plunging you into the viscous and frigid river underneath, and letting the current sweep you away.

You couldn’t stop your face from falling after he finished speaking at last. There was a moment of silence, and then: “Spencer…”

He flinched when you said his name—no longer doused in familiar affection, but entrenched in hurt. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, “but I didn’t—it wasn’t because—I didn’t mean for—” Spencer continued stumbling through answers, trying to find an adequate enough response to excuse his invasion of your privacy. When he failed to articulate himself, he raised a hand to the back of his head, running his fingers through his hair in frustration with a quiet groan.

“Why?” you breathed.

His eyes shot back up to you. “Because I…” He trailed off, but his lips remained parted, like he was trying to _force_ the words from his mouth but couldn’t out of fear for the weight they would carry.

You felt your heart stop.

 _Oh_.

Spencer recovered, taking a deep shaky breath, and then said, “I care about you. And you wouldn’t… I didn’t _know_ how to help you. And I was worried that I would lose you before I even had the chance to have you.”

And then your breathing stopped. How similar his reasoning was to Alexander’s.

And so you echoed the same words that you had said to Alexander ten years ago: “I am _not_ a prize to be ‘ _had_ ’.”

Spencer’s eyes widened. “No, that’s not what I mean. You _know_ that.”

Did you? Suddenly, you couldn’t distinguish the present from the past. The room faded in and out between your bedroom and a luxurious apartment hallway in New York City. Spencer’s brown eyes blended with icy blue daggers. His soft voice melded with one of a lower register, one that still held the rounded lilt of a slight French accent.

Everything started spinning. The world around you became devoid of oxygen. Your breathing picked up.

Spencer took a step towards you, softly calling your name again, and for a split-second, you were plunged entirely back into that past. You could feel Alexander’s hand squeezing around your wrist after you’d tried to brush past him. You could see the resentment, the unjustifiable _fury_ in his eyes as he glared at you. You could feel your face twisting up, in part due to the strength of his grip on you—so tight that you’d woken up the next morning with the cursed mark of his hand on you—but mostly in challenge. You remembered _daring_ him to take it farther.

But at that point, you’d had much less to lose than you did now. A sick part of you _wanted_ pain, just so you could remind yourself that you could still feel _something_.

Now, adapted to the relative comfort of your present life, a sliver of fear ran through your body as Spencer drew closer. You took a staggering step back, drawing your hands to your chest as you quietly gasped, “ _Don’t_.”

He froze, his eyes going wide and then squeezing shut. The outstretched hand he had towards you dropped back to his side. 

You closed your eyes as you whispered, “I think you should leave, Spencer.” Your voice was trembling. “And… I don’t think we should see each other like this anymore. Our ‘arrangement’ together is done.”

He clenched his jaw, a flash of hurt followed by anger taking over his face. “That’s all this was to you? An ‘arrangement’?”

“I was clear about my intentions from the beginning. So were you. It’s not my fault that you got attached to something that I _told you_ I didn’t want.” Even as you spoke, you could feel your heart cracking open.

“So you’re going to tell me that you don’t… you don’t feel _anything_ for me beyond, what? Sexual attraction?”

You opened your mouth, and for one second, the words were trapped in your throat, like your very own body was rejecting them. Finally, you forced them out, the words poisonous as they passed your lips: “No, I don’t.”

It was perhaps the worst lie you’d ever told.

And judging by Spencer’s expression, he didn’t believe you in the slightest.

You didn’t try to convince him.

So Spencer clenched his jaw again and stayed still for a few moments, casting his gaze down towards the ground. Then, he just nodded, grabbed his half-packed go bag on the floor of your bedroom, and walked out.

You heard him shuffling around your main room, grabbing his coat and his shoes, and then you heard your front door open.

Then there was a pause.

And then he left.

You were still for five seconds before you succumbed.

Your heart began racing first, tightening your chest and squeezing your lungs. Then, black spots edged into your vision as you struggled for breath. Your eyes scanned the room, flicking to your phone face down on your nightstand, and then to the photograph that had been left discarded on your comforter—the photograph that had just less than ten minutes prior been in Spencer’s hands as he listened to you speak about your family, _pretending_ to not know anything. 

And then there was irrational rage.

You walked over to the bed, yanked the photograph from its place, and whipped around to chuck it at the wall. Glass exploded in your room, falling to the ground like the droplets of tears forming in your eyes. You inhaled deeply and exhaled a sob.

Your eyes scanned the room, looking for something else to destroy, to just distract you from the storm raging inside you, tearing you to pieces. They fell on your slender bookshelf, and your heart twisted again at the realization that each of the books on there—each of your favorite, precious worlds—had been touched by Spencer as well.

Not a part of you nor your haven was left alone.

And you couldn’t help but think to just the previous night, when you’d walked out of your shower and found Spencer sitting cross-legged on the center of your bed. Beside him was your worn, yellowed, and fraying copy of _Jane Eyre_. Your name was written in highlighter along the fore edge of the book. You’d read it for the first time when you were eight.

In his lap, he had _Poems by Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell_ open, one finger running down the page as he took in both the poetry by the famous Brontë sisters and your childish annotations.

And you remembered standing in the doorway of your master bathroom, watching him peruse through your poetry book while completely unbothered by your reappearance, and thinking that you could get used to his presence here. More than used to it. You hadn’t wanted a night where you didn’t find Spencer curled up with a book somewhere close to you.

Now, you strode to the bookshelf and tore it down from where it stood like a martyr destroying a false idol. The very top shelf caught on the edge of your bed frame, sending the books tumbling _hard_ against the ground. Pages ripped. Spines broke. But you didn’t feel regret until your collection of Emily Dickinson poems—rather, your _mom’s_ collection—fell from the top shelf and onto your bed.

And just as quickly as it had taken over your entire body, the rage ebbed into something else—hurt. Sorrow. Longing.

You wrapped your arms around the book, pressing it into your chest as if the words that once guided you so many years ago could suddenly balm the wound inside you that grew deeper and deeper every day. And then you thought about how Spencer softly read you to sleep when you were ill, how you could not read or even _think about_ your favorite poem by Emily Dickinson anymore without associating it with his soft voice.

You couldn’t stop yourself from opening to the poem:

_Wild nights! Wild nights!_

_Were I with thee,_

_Wild nights should be_

_Our luxury!_

_Futile the winds_

_To a heart in port, —_

_Done with the compass,_

_Done with the chart._

_Rowing in Eden!_

_Ah! the sea!_

_Might I but moor_

_To-night in thee!_

It had been your favorite poem ever since you were young, back when your eyes took in the wide world with optimistic hope. All you had wanted was to know what it might be like to have your own “heart in port,” to look into the eyes of another and see Eden in their soul. 

What hurt the most now was that you had thought that, perhaps, at long last, you might have found that in Spencer.

But you couldn’t allow yourself to be with someone who used love as a justification for betrayal. For hurting you.

Not again.

And suddenly, after all of the events of this night, after all the various emotions it had _dragged_ out of you, after feeling so tethered to the present for the first time in your adult life only to be shoved back into those past horrors, you were hit with a wave of exhaustion.

So you slowly climbed into bed, your collection of Emily Dickinson poems still clutched tight to your chest, and closed your eyes. Maybe you would clean up the glass and fix your bookshelf tomorrow.

Tonight, you thought it fitting to sleep surrounded by your chaos.

And the following morning, just half an hour before your alarm was set to go off, when you were jolted awake by another vivid nightmare that left your skin clammy and your chest tight, you swiped your phone off your nightstand to play the Chopin nocturne that never failed to soothe you.

But first you checked your notifications. You only had two emails.

The first from Director Boucher, which said: _Operation Angel has been terminated_.

And the second from the division chief of the New York City office, detailing transfer information and meeting times for your first day on February first.

You blinked at the emails.

And then you just fired a vague text to Hotch saying that you were sick and would be taking the day off.

After receiving his confirmation, you set your phone back down and rolled over, still holding your collection of poems, and shut your eyes again, trying to ignore the fact that your first instinct upon waking up was to reach for the person who no longer occupied the other side of the bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I genuinely think writing this chapter like took something from me that i'll never get back. This was hard lol  
> Anyway, things start picking up from here, so look forward to that! Fair warning that the next update will likely be in the middle/end of next week :)  
> Thank you for reading <3


	24. ...But Death Had Told Her So the First

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> quick note: reminder that this story takes place around 2015-2016!

You didn’t go into work the day after that, either.

Instead, you alternated between lying in your bed and sitting on your couch, occasionally taking a bite or two from the cold Indian takeout you had in the fridge. It was from a new vegetarian restaurant in your neighborhood. You and Spencer had ordered an exorbitant amount earlier in the week and had eaten it while watching a filmed production of Shakespeare’s _The Merry Wives of Windsor_ on your TV. The food was delicious at the time.

Now, it didn’t taste like much.

If you weren’t trying to make yourself eat something, you were rereading your collection of Emily Dickinson poems over, and over, and over again. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you could hear your voice of rationality screaming at you to get up, to march into Boucher’s office and demand to know why, to just do _anything_ other than letting yourself wallow.

But there was a twisted comfort in the true hopelessness in which you hadn’t indulged in a decade. That darkness was like a warm blanket surrounding you, weighing you down until you sank into the ground. And though you wished you were stronger than to revert back to this, you were so desperate for something familiar and known that you didn’t have it in you to fight it away this time.

You were too tired to even try. 

And at 8pm on the second night, you lied on your side on the very edge of your bed, as far away as you could be from the side that Spencer always slept on. His scent still lingered in parts of your apartment, but nowhere more than in your bed. You didn’t have the energy to strip the sheets and wash them, so you just tried to ignore it as best you could.

It didn’t work.

Your phone buzzed from its place on your nightstand, but you didn’t check to see what it was; it was likely just another email about transfer logistics, or a confirmation that Hotch had received all the forms regarding your departure from the BAU. Instead, you had the bottom drawer of your nightstand open, and you were staring at the half filled bottle of vodka you kept stored there. 

Throughout these past several weeks, you had somehow forgotten it was even there. There had just been so many other avenues of distraction, of balming that festering wound in you, that you hadn’t _really_ felt the need to drink it away. 

Now, it looked like reprieve. A solution. An escape.

But when you swung your legs to dangle off the bed and sat up after swiping it out of the drawer, raising it to your lips, you sharply pulled it away with a gag at the mere scent of it. Its biting aroma burned the insides of your nose and throat, and when you finally blinked the tears away, you stared at the bottle with wide eyes.

That was a first, but considering the fact that you hadn’t eaten anything substantial in two days, you shouldn’t have been shocked. Had you even had _water_ today?

You couldn’t remember.

Before you could try to either get yourself to drink water or to just force the liquor down and hope for the best, your phone buzzed again, this time with an incoming call.

You turned your head to your nightstand and stared at your phone. The foolish part of you hoped it was Preston returning one of your seventeen calls, so when you finally gathered the energy to pick it up, you felt your heart sink at reading Garcia’s name instead.

You didn’t particularly want to talk to her, either. But when you let the call go to voicemail, she just called you back again immediately.

So you sighed and answered, “Hi, Garcia.” Your voice was raspy and hoarse from two days of disuse.

“ _Oh, gosh, you sound terrible. Are you still sick?_ ”

“Something like that. What do you want?” You didn’t have the willpower nor the care to keep the bite out of your tone.

If Garcia noticed, she didn’t say anything; she just powered ahead: “ _We have a case. Hotch wants everyone on it. You need to come in._ ”

You furrowed your brows. Hotch _had_ to have received your transfer forms by now. And even _if_ you wanted to go in, you were pretty sure you technically no longer even worked for the BAU. Your presence would be little more than a formality. “Are you sure about that?”

“ _Um... yes?_ ” She answered like it should have been obvious. At your silence, she added, “ _He specifically just asked me to call you in._ ”

So you sighed, “Sure, fine, I’ll be there soon,” and hung up the phone without waiting for a response.

Then you flopped backwards onto your bed with a loud groan and rubbed your palms into your eyes. The last thing you wanted to do was work this case. That meant being paired with Spencer, like you _always_ were, while building the profile, and even speaking to him wasn’t high on your list of priorities.

He had called you once that morning. You hadn’t picked up. He hadn’t called back, and you were glad for it. You weren’t sure what he’d say, nor were you certain of how you’d respond.

But still, you missed his presence more than you should have. His absence felt like losing a lung—you could theoretically live without it, but life seemed far better and easier if you had it. And why would you _want_ to live with one lung when you didn’t really have to?

But every time your mind wandered far enough back to Spencer, every time it began unpacking just _why_ exactly his deceit and exile from your life hurt deeper than you knew it should have, every time you stared at the phone and debated calling him back, you were brought back to that hallway in the apartment you shared with Alexander again.

And then you’d remember what he’d said to you that night. The feel of his tight grip on your wrist. The realization that if _that_ was love, then you’d be perfectly content without ever having it in your life again.

And you’d shake away the thoughts and the feelings.

Not again.

Never again.

You resolved to just head straight into Hotch’s office when you got there and tell him directly about your transfer and that you felt it best to step away from the BAU given the circumstances. The team operated perfectly without you. They could do it again.

But after cramming your body into work appropriate clothing and driving to the academy, heading up the elevators and slowly towards the glass doors, you found the bullpen empty save for the entire team standing by their desks with their eyes trained on Hotch’s office.

The blinds were closed.

The sound of your shoes clicking against the floor alerted them of your presence. You made a point to not look at Spencer, even if you saw him in your peripheral vision straighten up immediately out of surprise.

“Hey, how are you feeling?” Derek asked.

You shook your head. “I’m not staying long. I just need to clear something up with Hotch. Speaking of whom…” You pointed to his office in question.

JJ, who’d been leaning against her desk with a fresh mug of coffee in one hand, shrugged. “He’s been in there with your ViCAP friend for half an hour.”

Your breath hitched. “What?”

She opened her mouth to answer, but before she could even get a word out, Hotch’s office door swung open. He strode out and immediately headed towards the briefing room with nothing more than a wave of his hand to indicate that you should all follow.

And then Preston appeared in the doorway with several folders tucked under one arm, and his bag slung over the other.

And for one second, you forgot about everything else as you took him in.

He looked _horrible_ . He hadn’t shaven in days, his eyes were lined with red from clear exhaustion, there were prominent bags and dark circles under his eyes, and his hair was flat with grease. His clothes were rumpled, like they were two days old. The last time you’d seen him look even _nearly_ this messy was the night you first met him. Preston prided himself deeply on his polished appearance, so for him to forgo any maintenance at all… 

Something was wrong. Something was very, _very_ wrong.

But when he locked eyes with you, he looked away quickly, like he was a child who’d just been caught in the act.

And then you realized that there would only be one explanation as to why Preston was talking with Hotch on a random Sunday night—that there would only be one reason Preston was following him into the briefing room.

You ignored the stares of your peers as you sprinted up the stairs by Hotch’s office and after Preston. Right at the threshold of the door to the briefing room, you grabbed him by the bicep and forced him to turn around and face you properly.

He closed his eyes in frustration as you did, sighing heavily through his nose.

“What… what is this?” you asked, breathless.

Preston opened his eyes and set his jaw. The rest of the team filed into the room through the other entrance, and from behind Preston, you could see Hotch going around and closing the blinds to the room.

When Preston answered, his voice was low. “You weren’t gonna take it to the BAU, so I did.” And when your eyes widened, your face going tight with a tortured expression, he added, “If I’d told you, you would’ve stopped me. I’m not gonna be Boucher’s dog like you are.”

His words cut into you, and you had to stop yourself from flinching at his dark tone. He’d never spoken to you like that before. You answered, “This is still _my case_.”

Preston shook his head, averting his gaze. He clenched his jaw before responding, “It’s not just about you anymore.” He looked back up at you and narrowed his brows. “Whether you like it or not, I’m presenting the case to them. The _whole_ case—” Preston ignored your quiet sound of distress. “—I already explained most of it to Agent Hotchner, but—”

“Agent Preston,” Hotch interrupted, “are you ready?” 

The rest of the team had already sat down at their usual seats, and Garcia was standing by the television screen ready to pass off the remote to Preston.

Preston didn’t look back at you as he nodded, answering, “Yes, sir,” and striding into the room.

And you were left standing in the doorway with your lips parted, your chest tight, and your stomach flipping over. Your eyes tracked Preston as he dropped his bag by his feet and retrieved the remote from Garcia.

And then the team turned to stare at you.

“Is something wrong?” Hotch asked.

“I…” You trailed off, closing your mouth and swallowing thickly. You were torn in two—one side of you was desperate to stop this, to keep your teammates from learning this part of you, to keep them out of jeopardy. You knew that as soon as they learned the history of your case, they would jump to help.

And you couldn’t even imagine what Boucher would do if he found out.

While, yes, the BAU had managed to break protocol and disobey higher ups without much consequence several times before, they had never dealt directly with Boucher. Boucher didn’t take kindly to insults to his authority. And you yourself didn’t want to go against his orders, either. It felt… wrong, given your history with him.

And the monster you were hunting was merciless. The last thing you wanted was a target on all of their backs if you were so fortunate to get too close.

But the other side of you was simultaneously near tears with relief at being forced to actually bring outside aid into this, and was also petrified of the prospect of having an entire team of people helping you. You didn’t like asking for help, and you were used to working independently. 

But you wondered if the real reason you hadn’t brought them into it at all yet was because you were just terrified of what you might find. A ghost story wasn’t nearly as frightening as a real life poltergeist standing in front of you, after all.

So, even though you felt bile rising in your throat, and even though your hands shook from where they were clenched at your sides, you just shook your head. “No,” you ground out hoarsely. “Nothing’s wrong.”

You slowly entered the room, closing the door behind you gently and taking your usual seat next to Spencer. You kept your gaze down on the table and ignored the feel of his stare boring into you.

“Alright, what’s going on?” Derek asked as he leaned back into his seat and turned his eyes onto Preston standing at the front of the room.

Preston looked to Hotch for confirmation to continue. At receiving a nod, he glanced over at you just as you looked up at him, and for a single second, his piercing gaze softened, as if in a silent apology for going behind your back.

And while you couldn’t exactly blame him, you also weren’t in the most forgiving mood. You broke the stare and looked back down at the table to where a tablet had been slid in front of you, blocking him out.

You heard Preston take a slightly shaky breath and then clear his throat.

Then the screens turned on along with the television.

And you stopped breathing.

“Yesterday evening at 7:23pm, Agent Maryanne Brecker of the New York City field agents was found murdered in a warehouse in Brooklyn. The coroner placed her time of death at around two days prior to the discovery.”

Preston continued on rattling off details of the injuries to her body, but you couldn’t hear much over the blood roaring in your ears.

On the screen in front of you were several photographs of Maryanne’s mutilated body, first upon the initial discovery, and then laid out on a metal table at the coroner’s office. She had been stripped naked before the disposal of her body and propped up against the wall. Her head was slumped, her bright red hair stained scarlet by blood, and her neck had been slit from ear to ear. Dried blood was caked onto her body so thickly, having _poured_ from the wound on her throat, that you could barely see the skin on the front of her torso. Her arms had been spread out to each side, kept extended by nails that pinned her palms to the wall. By the look of the injury, it seemed to you as if they had been put there by a nail gun. All of her limbs were bent at odd angles, every single joint on her body completely broken, and her tongue had been cut off and shoved down her throat. Deep lacerations littered her body. 

According to the report, all of the mutilation had been done pre-mortem. The cause of death had been exsanguination from the wound to her throat.

And as Preston finished speaking, you finally looked back up at him. His eyes were vacant as he spoke, his voice growing hoarser as he rattled out everything that had been done to her.

Then he paused, allowed the group to process what he’d said, and then clicked to the next page.

“Two days ago at 9:47pm, Elena Webber—a protected citizen in Witness Protection going by the alias of Samantha Lark—was found in a construction site by Pier 26 in Manhattan. Her time of death was estimated to be three days before being discovered by the construction crew.”

And her body had been handled in the exact same manner as Maryanne’s.

And you were at a loss for words, your lungs constricting in your chest as your breathing grew shallow, in part due to the horrific crimes that had been committed against them, but mostly because you had seen the exact same MO before.

You looked back to Preston again, your eyes wide, your nails digging into the palms of your hand as if you would tumble away from reality without the sensation. And his eyes flickered back to you at last—green irises entrenched in sorrow and rage.

But before you could react, the images on the screens shifted again, and the sick feeling that always accompanied these photos came upon you so suddenly that you had to press your lips together lest you vomit on the table.

Three federal agents and their families were displayed on the screens, first frozen in a happy memory, and then, as the screen switched again, all mutilated in the exact same manner as Maryanne and Samantha.

And then came the truth as Preston began explaining their connection.

“Roughly fifteen-years-ago, between December 1st and December 4th of 2000, five federal agents and their families were murdered under the same conditions as Agent Brecker and Samantha Lark.” He went on to explain the specific details—the location and time of both the initial abductions and post-mortem discoveries.

But as he wrapped up this portion, Prentiss furrowed her brow at her tablet screen and asked, “Where are the other two agents?” She looked back up at Preston. “There are only three listed here.”

Preston looked at you for a second, eyes soft in apology, before the screen changed again.

And your gut riled again before the images that had been seared into your mind for the past fifteen years popped onto the screen: the photographs of your mutilated and naked family, all sat up against the wall in the same fashion as the rest of the victims in the basement of a warehouse in Queens, side-by-side with their outstretched fingers brushing over each other.

And though the rest of the team had not yet made the connection despite the last name you shared with your family, you saw Spencer’s go completely rigid out of the corner of your eye. He didn’t make a show of it, but could feel his eyes flickering from the printed-out files in front of him to you.

You could practically see everything clicking into place for him, everything that had not been already explained becoming clear in his mind.

Saliva saturated your mouth from nausea, and your head felt light. Maybe you should have eaten something today. Maybe you should have drank water. Maybe you wouldn’t have felt as sick as you did right now. But you clenched your jaw and pressed your lips together even tighter, even as you felt your stomach lurch inside you.

You _were not_ going to puke on the fucking table…

… were you?

You clasped your hands together in your lap and squeezed them tight, your nails digging into wherever they could find purchase. Your entire body was trembling. It was a wonder how no one else had noticed yet.

And then Preston said, “The final family was a peculiar case in that the two agents involved were survived by—”

The screen switched again, and it was as if the room itself had gone still.

Silent.

And you shut your eyes, because even after all these years, you still couldn’t stand to look at those pictures—the pictures of eighteen-year-old you, eyes wide yet completely vacant, entire body coated with dried blood that was not your own, and forced to pose for evidence photographs in hospital-given-undergarments. All of your clothes—underwear included—had been taken away as evidence.

And even now, despite the fact that your skin had been prickling with goosebumps from the cold air in the hospital, you could vividly remember the sensation of not being able to physically feel anything, of feeling far away from your body—like you were looking at yourself and simultaneously the world through a foggy glass plane. You still weren’t sure whether it was from the drugs that were still being flushed from your system or because you still had yet to understand what had just happened to you.

Probably a mix of both. You still felt like that at times, especially after nights where you had terrors so vivid that you’d woken up feeling like the world was pressing down on your chest. 

Now, however, you felt everything far too much, like you were drowning in yourself. Bile rose in your throat again. You forced it back down.

“Oh…” Garcia whimpered quietly.

The back of your neck burned with humiliation at the idea of them seeing your younger self like this—hollow and degraded. 

“—Agent Y/L/N, who bore witness to the kidnapping, torture, and slaughter of her family,” Preston finished quietly.

 _Bore witness_. A shitty way to describe it. If they took one glance at your hospital report, they would see that you had been injected with so much ketamine by your kidnapper that you were hardly a reliable witness. You hadn’t been able to distinguish what had been real and what had been a delusion that night.

You still didn’t know.

The agents who had spoken to you at the hospital tried a cognitive interview, but you weren’t able to speak coherently. You were a lost cause.

But that didn’t stop your mind from conjuring horrific images and terrors to torment you all these years later.

You could feel the stare of every single person in the room on you. The air felt thin, and even though your eyes were still shut tight, it felt like the room was spinning around you. You swallowed thickly again, nearly— 

Oh—not “nearly.”

You were going to vomit. 

_You were going to vomit right no—_

You bolted up from your seat, barely managing a thick “Excuse me” to the table, as you made an undignified half-sprint out of the room, down the stairs, and straight to the women’s washroom. 

You barely made it to one of the sinks before you started dry heaving and gagging above it. There wasn’t even anything in you _to_ throw up. Stomach acid burned your throat as you heaved it up and into the sink.

And when the wave had passed, and you were leaning your head against the cool sink countertop gulping down air, you heard a knock on the washroom door.

It was Hotch. “Y/N, is everything alright?” he asked.

“Great,” you called back. Your voice was raspy, and you cleared your throat. “I’m fine. I’ll be… I’ll just be a second.”

There was a beat of silence.

“Agent Preston is briefing the rest of the team on the specific details of your operation. I’d like to speak with you in the meanwhile.”

You shut your eyes again. By “specific details,” you had no doubt that Preston was telling them everything—how you noticed the first potentially related case during your last year in ViCAP, where a family in Westchester had been brutally murdered in their own home with the oldest daughter missing. Her body had been discovered a few days later in the river. You would have looked past it entirely had the report not stated that her cause of death was a ketamine overdose.

That raised an alarm in your mind.

The case, however, had been taken out of your hands unexpectedly by another member in ViCAP, and you were immediately assigned several more. You didn’t have the time to think much more of it, but it had lingered in your mind.

And then a few weeks later, a similar case had appeared on your desk—dead family from Staten Island (this time because of a gas leak inside the house), but the oldest daughter had been found in the garage, completely separated from the rest of her family.

Still, not close enough to mean a legitimate connection, but it still stuck out to you.

Throughout your time at ViCAP, you routinely would appeal to Boucher, begging to reopen the investigation to your parents’ murder, but he had continuously shut you down. It wasn’t for lack of his own desire (you could _see_ his tortured expression the first few times you’d asked), but rather, the politics of his position would not allow an official investigation into it. That was when he explained to you, in the vaguest terms possible, what your parents and the other murdered agents had been involved in—a covert operation that had been wiped entirely from every database because of the sensitive nature of the mission.

But nothing ever _really_ got wiped entirely from the bureau. You just weren’t skilled enough to track it down. 

You had convinced Boucher to transfer you to the BAU, skipping past all necessary training under his permission, so that you could at least try to find some of your own closure through surrogate cases.

But within the first six months of your working for the BAU, Preston had found two other cases—both different enough that there was no feasible connection to you or what you’d found, nor an indication that it was a serial case that could get sent to the BAU, but they were still just _barely_ close enough to what you’d been questioning so far that you couldn’t leave it alone anymore.

You were shocked when you presented them all to Boucher, begging him to let you at least try, and he’d approved it. Of course, your own case came with heavy restrictions and a limited allocation of resources, but it was enough.

Several times throughout the process, you’d thought you’d made connections where there were none. After starting the official investigation, you would only get a potentially connected killing every six months, or so. Samantha Lark had been the first real lead.

And now she was dead along with Maryanne, killed in the exact same fashion as your family had been.

And you allowed yourself to feel guilt and shame for three seconds before you forced those feelings away. You dragged them back into this. You would get them justice.

So you slowly dragged yourself up from where you were slumped on the counter and turned on the faucet, cupping your hands underneath the stream of water and lifting them to your lips so you could rinse your mouth out. You gave yourself another fifteen seconds to compose yourself before opening the door to the washroom.

Hotch was leaning against the wall across the hallway. He stood straight when you exited.

“How are you feeling?” he asked. “Are you still sick?”

The way he said it confirmed that he didn’t believe for a second that you had actually been ill for the past two days.

“I’m doing better,” you answered just as blandly. “I’m sorry for my outburst. I just… didn’t expect that when I came into the office.”

“I apologize for the ambush. Agent Preston reached out to me yesterday morning to discuss Samantha Lark’s murder. When Agent Brecker’s body turned up later that day, I made the decision to bring it into the BAU. Given the circumstances and Boucher’s involvement, it seemed wise to keep the information between him and myself until we were all together again.”

You nodded. “I understand,” you replied weakly. Then, you swallowed and asked, “Sir, did you… receive my transfer forms?”

Hotch blinked. “No. I haven’t checked my email.”

That was a blatant lie. He _had_ seen the forms.

But he continued, “As far as I’m concerned, you still work for the BAU and will work for the BAU until I’m explicitly told otherwise. And I would hope that if such a thing were to occur that you would speak to me beforehand.”

“It’s not my choice,” you answered quietly. “I don’t… I don’t want to leave the BAU.”

He stared at you for a beat before responding, “Then it’s a good thing that I have yet to receive an official document mandating your transfer.” Then, he stole a glance back to the briefing room before looking back at you. “That said, you can imagine that I have… reservations about keeping you on this case.”

“No, no.” Your voice was soft but firm as you shook your head. “Hotch, please, you can’t… you don’t…” You squeezed your eyes shut as you leaned your head back against the washroom door. “This case is all I have. Please.”

Your reality was so much more pathetic when voice aloud.

Hotch didn’t answer. When you opened your eyes to look up at him again with sheer desperation, he sighed. “When we find the individual or group responsible—and I promise you that we _will_ find them—you will not be involved in the take-down. I do not want you having any contact with the unsub whatsoever. Is that clear?”

At your hesitation to agree to his terms, his face softened the slightest. He added, “Facing down the person who killed your loved ones brings out a dangerous side of you. I don’t want you to have to go through that, too.”

You’d heard in passing what had happened to Hotch and his ex-wife, but you’d never spoken to him about it. And how could you argue with that, even if you so desperately wanted to? So, finally, you nodded. “Okay,” you said, “I understand.”

And the two of you made your way back to the briefing room, where you found the entire team staring at the large screen on the wall.

Before you could even open your mouth an utter an apology for losing your composure earlier, Preston said in a dark voice, “You both need to hear this.”

“Hear what?” you asked, furrowing your brows.

“Maryanne’s supervisor just sent over a few leftover pieces of evidence to us. They needed to get processed there before we could have unlimited access. We just got Maryanne’s distress call to 911, from her burner phone,” he answered. 

One look at the faces of your teammates told you that it was disturbing.

You returned to your seat beside Spencer, fighting your instinct to reach for him as a way of comfort.

Preston hit the spacebar, and Maryanne’s voice rang out in the room.

“ _This is federal agent Maryanne Brecker with the FBI_ ,” she began. Her voice was shaking violently in a sharp whisper. She sounded like she was in pain. “ _I’m requesting backup immediately. I don’t know where I am. I’ve been drugged and taken to a secondary location, and I—_ ” She gasped softly. “ _Shit. He’s coming_ .” 

Maryanne stayed on the line. You could hear her shaky and shallow breaths.

And then you heard something familiar, something that tugged into the deepest recesses of your brain.

“Wait,” you interjected, “Garcia, filter out Maryanne’s breathing and increase the background volume.”

Garcia nodded and did as told. The clip began to play again, but this time, when Maryanne stopped speaking, you didn’t hear her breathing.

You heard whistling. To the tune of “Alouette.” Slowly getting louder and closer to Maryanne.

But you didn’t hear the rest of the phone call. You didn’t process Maryanne’s plea for mercy getting cut off as the call ended. You didn’t even realize when the call ended.

Because your mind had split—half of you was present in the room, the other half back in that warehouse, walking down a hallway to find Lizzy at the end. 

Someone in the distance was repeatedly humming the first two lines.

_Alouette, gentille alouette..._

_Alouette, je te plumerai…_

Over. And over. And over again.

You stared agape at the screen, your mouth half open, your entire body trembling as you struggled to keep yourself from falling away into that nightmare. You didn’t feel the tear—borne out of sheer terror alone—slip down your cheek, nor any of the tears that followed.

You had thought you’d imagine that tune in your drug induced haze at the time. And here he was, the same man whistling the same tune that haunted your dreams, on the other end of the phone.

Nothing could have prepared you for the icy grip of fear that paralyzed you in your chair.

“ _Oh my god_ ,” you finally managed, still torn between reality and past horror. “That… oh…”

And then your breathing picked up. You didn’t hear Prentiss repeating your name, asking if you were okay. The world was crumbling around you, and in an attempt to save yourself, you leaned forward and hid your face in your hands.

You dug your nails into your scalp, desperate for anything to keep you present. If you were alone, you’d go about your usual grounding techniques, but your lingering sense of pride refused to let you do it there, in front of everyone to see how messed up you really were.

But you were fighting a losing battle with yourself, and you could feel your mind sinking farther and farther into that darkness, saturating you with everything you’d experienced that night: hot blood warming on your skin, the sound of your family screaming, the smell of iron— 

A deep, sharp pain in your foot took you by surprise, and you jolted back up with a gasp.

And the darkness ebbed away as the pain in your foot grew.

And when you blinked hard against the light—now invasive in your sensitive state—you saw the team looking over at you, concerned. No judgement. Just worried.

And the pain stopped, but pressure remained.

You stole a glance down to see what was hurting you, and you saw Spencer’s foot resting on top of yours. He’d been grinding the heel of his shoe into the toe of yours—a subtle and last ditch attempt to keep you from completely succumbing without you having to expose yourself to the rest of the team.

And when you glanced at him, finally looking him in the eye for the first time since you’d arrived, you just saw a silent apology for hurting you. 

It was an apology for more than just the pain in your foot.

But Rossi’s voice drew your attention back to the group. “Is everything alright, Y/N?” he asked cautiously. “We lost you for a second, there.”

You dragged your hands down your face. “Yes, I’m sorry. That just… that just confirmed it was the same man that killed my family.” You looked back up at them and hoarsely confessed, “He was humming the same song that night. I didn’t… I thought I imagined it, but…” You trailed off as you scanned each of their faces.

And then, before you could stop them, the words tumbled off your tongue in a desperate whisper. “Please help me find him. Please.”

“About damn time,” Preston mumbled under his breath. You knew him well enough to know that the sarcastic quip was an attempt to detract from his own turmoil. From losing Maryanne.

JJ smiled softly at you. “We’ll do whatever it takes, Y/N.”

The rest of the team nodded or murmured their agreements, their faces shining with determination. 

And for the second time that night, tears pricked your eyes as you nodded back to them, for in that moment, you didn’t see Preston and the BAU standing around you.

You saw a family—one of your own making.

And the kernel of hope nestled in your heart fluttered again, brought back to life by the people who surrounded you.

So you smiled as best you could in return. “Thank you,” you whispered.

"Alright," Hotch said as he stood from his chair. He looked at you and nodded his head before turning his attention back to the rest of the group. “Let’s get to work.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy holidays! here's a lil present from me to you! the following few chapters might be a little shorter than usual, just btw.
> 
> As always, thank you for reading :)


	25. I Should Not Fear the Foe Then...

Two days passed. Hotch, Derek, Prentiss, JJ, and Rossi all flew up to New York City to investigate the crime scenes and locations as well as to speak with Maryanne’s supervisor. Despite your protests, neither you nor Preston were permitted to accompany them yourselves. Hotch wanted strictly unbiased eyes on the latest victims and for it to be under the guise of an unrelated BAU investigation.

You’d had to explain to them all what little you _did_ know for certain from that night: you and your family had been leaving Lincoln Center after watching a performance of Handel’s _Messiah_ by the New York Philharmonic. Your family’s usual driver had been ill for the past few days. Your parents had arranged for a different service to pick you up from Lincoln Center. You hadn’t even glanced at the driver as you got in the car. He pointed out that there were mini water bottles in every cup holder for all of you. You’d drunk half of yours and then…

Darkness.

And you were launched into a swirling world that mixed nightmare and reality, and every time you became a little bit more lucid, you’d feel a sharp pain in your neck and get sent straight back. You were only half certain that the man who had tortured your family members was wearing a mask. Either way, you didn’t know what he looked like.

You weren’t sure you ever really even wanted to know.

Truthfully, the idea of walking around where Maryanne and Samantha had been propped up with the exact same MO as your family made you sick. Perhaps it was a good thing that you weren’t permitted to go.

But Preston was a little less content to stay in Quantico sorting through files with you.

The two of you were sitting in the briefing room. You were running a program on your laptop that was trying to match similarities between all of the victims; it ran through work histories, past residencies, memberships to clubs or stores, and email subscriptions alike—anything that could draw a potential connection between any of them.

Besides the fact that all of the families between the initial killings and Samantha and Maryanne each were fairly well-off and had at least two children with a daughter being the oldest, there didn’t seem to be much else.

Preston was searching through the ViCAP database for anything within the past fifteen years that could have been related, and you could tell that he was getting increasingly more irritated as each passing case file yielded nothing fruitful.

Neither of you had spoken about your argument, nor had either of you addressed the tension that still hung thickly in the air between you. _You_ didn’t want to broach the subject, and Preston was just as stubborn as you were.

So you were sitting in uncomfortable silence as you went about your tasks.

You looked up from your laptop when you heard footsteps approaching and saw Spencer standing in the doorway. Hotch had ordered him to stay and work from the office to help you and Preston parse through files and paperwork and databases since he’d be able to do so at a far faster rate than either of you could.

But he had been keeping his distance, too, and if he wasn’t at his desk, he was with Garcia, who was running a program to slowly slip through layers of security to try and find information on whatever operation your parents were involved in.

You hadn’t really spoken to Spencer much in the past two days, so you were a little surprised to see him there. “Do you need something?” you asked.

He pressed his lips together in greeting before answering, “No, uh… Garcia just wanted me to give you these—” He placed a thin folder with papers inside on top of one of the many stacks of folders and boxes you already had littering the table. “They’re resumes for… all the victims.”

“Why didn’t she just send them to me herself digitally?”

“She’s busy searching for information. Morgan and Prentiss are following a lead, so they…” He trailed off, shaking his head slightly to himself. “It was faster for me to print them out and deliver them than it would have been to send them to you myself electronically. I figured you’d want them sooner rather than later.”

“Okay. Thanks, I guess.”

“You’re welcome.”

Spencer lingered in the doorway for one second before giving you a tight-lipped smile and turning on his heel.

You turned back to your laptop screen and resumed your typing. Out of the corner of your eye, you could see Preston glancing between you and the doorway.

Then he whistled under his breath as he returned to his work as well. 

You looked over at him.

He clicked his tongue but kept his eyes down at his papers. “That wasn’t just cold; that was fuckin’ _freezing_.”

You didn’t respond. You just stared at him, your fingers frozen over the keys of your laptop.

He glanced over to you with a shrug. “It’s getting painful to watch, honestly.”

“What?”

Preston sighed through his nose. “Now, I’m not a profiler, _or_ a doctor—” He gave you a pointed look to punctuate his words. You’d had to delineate your entire childhood to the team (genius status and academic record included) before they could start their investigations. Preston had seemed the most caught off-guard to learn that you had a PhD, but he hadn’t commented on it until now. “—but even an idiot can see that you’ve got it bad for each other. This is like… watchin’ two scared puppies circle each other.”

You pressed your lips together and turned back to your computer. You didn’t want to get into it, and certainly not with Preston. You didn’t have the mental capacity for it. “Shut up. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“That’s a joke, right?” And when you didn’t answer, Preston set his papers down on the table and looked you head on. “For fuck’s sake, the guy was reading a fuckin’ book on your bed. Since when do you even let people in your apartment?”

“It’s irrelevant. I don’t want to talk about it.”

“That’s usually when you need to talk about something the most.”

You laughed humorlessly, shoving your laptop to the side—disrupting a small pile of papers in its path—and folding your hands on the table top. Preston raised a brow at your actions.

“The last time you shared your opinions on my personal life, you basically called me a slut outside of my own apartment, so forgive me if I’m not the most receptive to such comments anymore,” you snapped.

He sighed heavily through his nose. “Sweetheart—”

“Don’t call me that.”

Preston deflated a bit, and you could see him chewing on the inside of his cheek—his nervous tell. “Look,” he began, settling back in his seat, “maybe I was a little… out of line—”

You cut him off with a scoff and went to reach for your laptop again. You knew that you were being petty, but you had barely slept in the past two nights. You were running on little more than a coffee-espresso combination, and you didn’t even remember the last time you’d actually eaten a meal instead of snacks from the vending machine. 

He narrowed his eyes. “Would you quit the attitude? I’m tryin’ to be decent and fuckin’ apologize.”

You paused, looking back over to him.

Preston took that as an indication to continue. “I’m sorry, alright? For everything that I said. I was just… _scared_ —”

“Do you think that I wasn’t? That I’m _not_?”

“No, just… listen—”

“ _No_ , _you_ listen,” you cut him off again. You cursed the waver that was growing in your voice and tried to swallow it down. “I have been terrified _every day_ of my fucking life for the past fifteen years—terrified of… of—” You huffed a laugh, running your hands down your face. “—of the possibility that this _monster_ might decide to come and finish the job, of how often I’ve _wished_ that he would so I could finally just… _rest_.” 

Preston’s face fell, and you had to look away. Your gaze took you to the windows of the briefing room, locking on Spencer sitting at his desk, rapidly scanning through printed out files.

Your eyes softened despite yourself, your heart aching as you continued in a soft voice: “And Spencer made me… a little less afraid of everything that’s so terrible in the world. He made me remember what it was like to be alive, to look forward to something, to want to do more than just exist.”

And then you remembered what he’d done, what you’d failed to detect because of that illusion, and you cleared your throat and turned your eyes back to Preston. “But… that _fear_ is the only thing that holds me accountable. So you were right. I was distracted. I lost sight of everything I was working towards. That’s why I don’t want to talk about it; it’s not important right now. It never was. I shouldn’t have thought it was.”

As you went back to typing on your laptop, Preston grew quiet. You could see him staring at you out of the corner of your eye. Then, he shifted in his seat, rubbing the overgrown stubble on his jaw with his hand.

“But that’s the thing, Y/N,” he said. “I wasn’t right.”

You looked back over to him.

“Do you remember how we met?”

Of course you did. Preston, however, didn’t. You’d gone to a bar fairly far from the academy after your third week of training. You just wanted to grab a drink by yourself while eating shitty food without the possibility of running into someone in training with you before going home and getting drunk. Unfortunately for you, trainee Christopher Preston had had a similar idea and was already _plastered_ when you arrived. You recognized him from a few of your courses, but went to the other side of the bar to indulge in your nightly sulking.

And then fifteen minutes later, Preston had gotten into a _violent_ brawl with a random group of guys, and, considering the fact that Preston was so drunk he couldn’t even walk straight, had gotten his ass handed to him on a silver platter within a minute of its commencement. The bartender had thrown them all out, but it seemed like the group of guys weren’t quite finished wailing on Preston.

And you had told yourself that it wasn’t your business, that he was an idiot for getting that drunk by himself, but letting him get the shit kicked out of him didn’t sit well with you. So you had sighed, paid the bartender for the beer you didn’t even get to drink, and walked outside, following the sound of drunken slurring and men acting like dogs.

It felt like something out of a movie, honestly. You had approached their group (unashamedly beating on a nearly unconscious Preston on the ground), and just began talking about how illegal it was to assault a federal officer ( _in training_ , you omitted).

You were lucky that they were such idiots, you supposed. They didn’t check. They just took in your sober demeanor and FBI t-shirt, still slightly sweaty from earlier training, and assumed you were telling the truth. They’d stumbled away, and you had let out a sigh of relief, turning on your heel and walking away.

And then you had heard a groan of pain, and you sighed again.

You couldn’t in good conscience just leave him there. 

So, frustrated that your evening “plans” had been interrupted for _this_ , you had turned back around and approached him.

“Hey,” you said, crouching down beside him. He’d rolled onto his back with a groan. “Christopher, right?”

He’d nodded (or at least you had _thought_ he did). Blood was leaking out of his nose, and he had a nasty black eye. From what you could tell, he seemed to be fine everywhere else, but… 

“My name is Y/N Y/L/N. We’re in training together at Quantico. Let’s get you to the ER, alright?”

You went to try and tug him up, but he had grabbed your hand. You instinctively yanked it away from him.

He’d shaken his head, unfazed. “Not hospital. ‘M fine. Hate hospitals,” he’d slurred.

And that tugged on a more empathetic part of your heart just because you could relate, so you softened and sighed. If there was more reason for concern, you could check him yourself and determine whether or not he needed to go to the ER. Despite only having attended medical school for a semester, you’d already known everything that constituted the first two years of lessons for medical school. You had been in classes with third-years for that one semester. You knew enough to tend to a drunk idiot who’d gotten the shit kicked out of him. 

“Okay,” you’d answered, “can I drive you home? Where do you live?”

His face had scrunched up. “Can’t remember.”

It seemed like some cosmic force was testing you that night. You shoved away your reservations and discomforts and ended up just taking him back to your apartment. He was barely responding to what you were asking, and you couldn’t just _leave_ him there.

When you’d gotten to your apartment, he’d promptly collapsed and passed out completely on your couch. You tried to wake him up to get him to ice his eye, but he was _out_ for the night.

You left him a glass of water and a bottle of ibuprofen on the coffee table, and your hallway bathroom trash can on the floor in case he needed to puke. Then, you wrote a note that said your name, the fact that you were in training together, and that you’d taken him there after he got beat up behind the bar, and you left it beside the ibuprofen.

And then you had just gone to bed, locking your bedroom door and shoving a few still-unpacked boxes in front of it due to paranoia.

When you’d woken up the next morning, you found Preston with his head buried underneath one of your decorative pillows, the sun from the windows streaming directly on him. He’d shot up with a loud groan when he heard you approaching. He was very obviously still drunk.

With his head dropped in his palms, he mumbled to himself about how he never should have left Dallas for Quantico, how he shouldn’t have quit his job as a junior partner at a law firm to become an agent. And completely unprompted, he’d looked up at you with red-lined-eyes from exhaustion and a tortured expression, and had told you the only reason he started training was because of his mom.

He’d told you that she had been a social worker and that she’d been killed in a drive-by gang shooting while checking up on one of her cases. He’d just wanted to help stop such things from happening in the first place. That had been when you’d told him about what had happened to you, because when you looked at Preston, you’d just seen a version of yourself.

You’d just seen someone alone, and grieving, and struggling, and desperately trying to fix something that was completely out of their control, just like you were, and you’d wanted him to know that you understood even if you barely knew him.

The two of you had been close ever since. 

So you just nodded, and the corner of Preston’s lip quirked upwards into a sad smile.

“I, uh,” he began, “I was going to drop out of training, actually. Made up my mind that night. That’s why I got so fucked up. I was kinda on the self-loathing pity party bender.”

You softened just the slightest. “You never told me that.”

Preston shrugged and looked down at his lap. “It didn’t come up. And, also, kinda embarrassing.” His eyes flickered back up to you. “I’m sayin’ it now because if you hadn’t been there that night, I don’t know where I’d be now. Dead, probably, if I’m bein’ honest. You were a friend to me before I even really knew who you were. Made me feel like I wasn’t alone, you know? So I stayed.” He paused again, breathing a laugh through his nose. “I owe my career to you, sweetheart.”

You shook your head. “That’s… you’re giving me too much credit.”

“I’m not. I promise, sweetheart, I’m not. You’re the best friend I’ve ever had in my sorry life. That’s why…” A look of shame passed his face. “That’s why when you stopped picking up the phone for me, I got a little… pissy. You know, you were getting harder to reach just when Maryanne went missin’, and you were the only one I could talk to about it. I got a little… lost.” He paused, his brows furrowing with grief for just a second. Then he cleared his throat and sniffed. “But I shouldn’t have said what I said to you. I’ll be honest; I’ve had my doubts about whether we’ll catch this son-of-a-bitch, whether there was really a case, but I’ve never doubted _you_ , sweetheart. Never. Not really. So I’m sorry.”

You were quiet for a few beats. Then, you whispered with barely restrained emotion, “That’s a pretty good apology.”

Preston winked at you. “I’ve been workin’ on it for a few days.” Then, his face sobered up again, and he glanced at the window towards Spencer, still seated as his desk. When he looked back at you, he reached across the table to grab your hand in his. “We’re gonna get him, Y/N. We will. And _when_ we get him, I want you to get over yourself and figure out whatever you’ve gotta figure out with the doctor. You deserve to feel like you can do more than just survive. You deserve to live, sweetheart. Find love, happiness, all that crap.”

You swallowed. “It’s not that easy. It got… more complicated,” you rasped. And Preston didn’t know your romantic history. He didn’t know about Alexander, and you weren’t eager to delve into that _now_ , of all times. If you explained what Spencer had done, he wouldn’t understand.

“God, you’re the worst,” Preston laughed with a shake of his head. “It’s only as complicated as you make it, you idiot.” Then, a shadow passed over his face, and the levity vanished as his voice dipped. “Just try. Please. Don’t wait until it’s too late.”

An echo of grief was etched into his voice—but a cloud in the storm that no doubt raged inside him as well.

So you just retracted your hands from his and, looking for something to do with them instead, reached for the folder that Spencer had dropped off. “Let’s just focus on one thing at a time,” you whispered back. You cleared your throat and flipped open the folder, skimming through the resumes and making it clear that the conversation was over.

Preston just shook his head to himself and went back to his own work.

As the first technical victim after the initial killings of the FBI agents, Samantha Lark (or Elena Webber, you supposed) was the first resume in the pile. Her family had been killed—and she had been kidnapped—just two weeks before she left for college at Dartmouth in 2005. As such, her resume was severely outdated, still listing her high school GPA and summer volunteer positions as well as high school clubs.

It was a frozen image of innocence, of a teenage girl on her way to excellence.

You barely took in anything. There wasn’t anything that stood out, but as you scanned the last line of her impressive volunteering section, you froze.

Then you blinked. Furrowed your brows. Read more carefully.

_Internship at Marseille and Company Corporate Law._

That was… that was Victor’s law firm. While, yes, he was the founder of The Monet Society, his day job was being a corporate attorney at the firm he’d started. And at the level that Victor worked at, there was no legitimate reason for them to have a freshly-graduated high school student as an intern.

So her family must have known him beforehand. Victor was a generous man to those he cared about and respected.

But, still, you flipped through the rest of the resumes to see if there was another connection to Victor Marseille.

You came up with nothing.

But when you thought about her parents, who worked well-paying jobs on Wall Street with senior positions and who indulged in the high-society bullshit that you knew all too well…

The Monet Society was highly exclusive, and membership was only granted through invite, but maybe…

You stood abruptly, gathering the resumes in your hands and grabbing your laptop, before striding out of the room. You heard Preston ask where you were going before you heard footsteps following you.

He was right behind you by the time you made it to Garcia’s office.

“Garcia, I need you,” you said as you entered. The door was left open behind you. Preston followed you in, and within seconds, Spencer was in the doorway as well.

You ignored both of them.

She glanced back at you. “What do you need?”

“I need you to find me a membership list for a social club in New York City. It’s called The Monet Society.” You knew a list had to exist _somewhere_. The Monet Society kept all information of its members under heavy lock and key, and because it was a completely private organization, there was no possible way to draw connections between members through membership alone. Someone would have to either already have access to the membership list (which you did not), or have a way to find it. You already knew you didn’t have the skillset to track it down, but Garcia definitely did.

She turned back to her monitors and began typing rapidly. “One membership list coming up in three… two… one… and…” A long scrolling list of names took up the screen.

“Can you cross check it with our list of known victims?”

“Cross checking…”

You held your breath as the information loaded but kept your face the picture of composure. 

Her computer _pinged_ , and her eyes scanned the screen. “The Webber family were members—joined in 2003—but no other matches.”

You sighed heavily through your nose. It was just a coincidence, and you wouldn’t have known any of them because you’d already left by the time they joined.

“Okay, thanks Garcia. Sorry.”

“No prob—” She was cut off by another _ping_ , this time originating from a different monitor. Garcia gasped. “Oh… _oh_! We got it! We got it!”

“Got what, Gar—”

“What is it?” You and Spencer spoke at the same time.

You glanced at each other before turning back to the monitors. Preston had taken to leaning against the wall beside the door as you and Spencer crowded around her chair. 

Garcia turned to her keyboard again, laughing triumphantly to herself. “Excellent questions, my little Einsteins—” You forced down an exasperated sigh. “—After two days of breaking through walls upon walls of security, _I_ have just gained access to the ‘does-not-technically-exist’ FBI database of ‘failed’ assignments. _This_ is a secret graveyard, my friends, and I am your medium.” She wiggled in her seat out of excitement. “Let’s talk to some ghosts.” 

You took a deep breath, grabbing a free chair and rolling it beside Garcia so you could sit. If evidence of the case that your parents and the other three agents involved still existed, it would have to be here.

The room went silent save for the sound of her typing. At one point, Preston walked up behind you and placed a comforting hand on your shoulder. In your peripheral vision, you saw Spencer glance over. You ignored it.

Then Garcia grinned. “Got’cha.”

And several documents filled the screens, including official pictures of your parents and the other agents as the members of the operation.

Your eyes couldn’t scan the screens fast enough.

From what the documents detailed, the operation was to expose an underground organization with ties to the Corsican mafia that had grown its roots in New York City. In the 1950s, a known ringleader for the mafia moved to Brooklyn, evading Interpol’s efforts to crack down on organized crime in Europe, and laid low for several years before beginning operation, first within his own family, and then expanding as more members trickled in from France. Suspicions of its existence in the United States grew in 1998 when a handoff of young women to be trafficked to France was raided by agents, along with several hundred kilos of heroin.

Your parents, both having previously practiced in international criminal law before joining the FBI (your mother for the International Operations Division, and your father as a field agent), were selected alongside the three other agents to work the covert operation cracking down on this branch of the mafia and, specifically, to figure out the money laundering front they were using.

The report then went on to detail the operation’s failure, on the stain it had left on the bureau’s reputation, on the civilian deaths involved (as well as your survival, you noted grimly). The operation was ended and deleted from public records and databases until “further notice.”

“Further notice,” evidently, meant never.

Preston’s voice broke the silence. “Hang on—sex trafficking.” He looked back down at you. “We found Samantha because of the list Boucher gave us from Anti-Trafficking. She wasn’t random like the other victims we’ve been looking at.”

You blinked, and with your heart descending into your stomach, you grabbed your laptop and went back to the Missing Persons list that Boucher had sent you in November. True, all of the girls on that list had murdered parents, but they didn’t fit the trend in any other way. They weren’t the oldest daughters of their families, nor were their bodies ever found.

The other cases you had found had no signs nor indication that trafficking was ever in the picture. That was why neither you nor Preston thought twice about them.

But you sent the list of names to Garcia and said, “Cross check members of The Monet Society with these family names.” Your hands were shaking as you closed your laptop again.

She typed a few strokes on her keyboard, and then…

Perfect matches. Every single one of the families had been a member.

And no one would have ever known because The Monet Society was a private organization.

You closed your eyes and thought back to your childhood, wracking through every single party, gala, and event that was hosted by The Monet Society, trying desperately to try and remember something of use. 

It couldn’t have been Victor.

It couldn’t have.

Your parents would have known.

 _You_ would have known.

But even as Garcia called your name gently, even as Preston’s grip tightened on your shoulder, you couldn’t help but hear Victor’s voice echo in your mind: _D’autres choses peuvent nous changer, mais nous commençons et finirons comme une famille._

Other things may change us, but we start and end as family.

And you recalled the first time he had said it to you. Your parents had invited him, Alexander, and his other son Leo, over for dinner. You were young—no more than seven-years-old—and had gotten into an argument with Elizabeth, as all children and siblings do. You had stormed out of the room despite your parents calling after you.

And Victor was the one to find you sulking in your bedroom.

“You are Elizabeth’s big sister, _ma fille_. You have to be there to protect her. There is no stronger bond than family, you know,” he had said.

And when you had crossed your arms and turned away from him, he had chuckled.

“Do you know what my father used to say to me when I would fight with my brothers?” he’d asked. You didn’t react, but he continued on. “He used to tell me: _D’autres choses peuvent nous changer, mais nous commençons et finirons comme une famille._ Other things may change us, but we start and end as family. I remind my boys of that every time they argue, too.” Then he had tapped on your shoulder, turning you around gently. “Family is everything, _ma fille_. Everything.”

That was his mantra, and he had said those words to you several times throughout your life.

He’d said them to you while you were in the hospital after your family had been killed.

“I will always be your family, too,” he’d said afterwards, his eyes shining with agony. “Always, _ma fille_.”

Agony was impossible to fake. You _knew_ that.

But as your head started spinning, a foggy memory from that night became crisper.

Your mind was still heavily sedated when you were led out of the building where you and your family had been held for several hours. You didn’t remember much from your rescue. You looked down at the snow covering the ground and saw red streaks of blood dripping from your body and marring its innocence. You saw a blur of colors—red and blue sirens. And then you remembered sandy brown hair and blue eyes.

Sandy brown hair and blue eyes.

Yes, now that you remembered it, Victor had been there on the scene. Comforting you. Holding your hand as you were rushed to the hospital.

Your eyes snapped open.

 _How_ had Victor been there?

He wasn’t an agent. He wasn’t an emergency contact. He shouldn’t have known anything.

There was no way for him to have been there unless he already knew where you were.

“Oh my god,” you whispered. Your entire body began trembling. “ _Oh. My. God._ ”

“What is it?” Spencer asked urgently.

But you couldn’t speak yet. Your mind was reeling as all the pieces began falling into place.

Victor was not the man who killed your family, but you finally realized that you were thinking too narrowly. How could one man hold an entire family, especially one with two federal agents? How could one man have killed _all_ the families of the agents involved in your parents’ operation?

No, you were looking for a group, and you had found it.

So Victor may not have done the deed himself, but he must have known about it. He must have ordered it, because there was no doubt in your mind that Victor Marseille—the man who helped raise you, the man you had seen as an uncle for your entire life, the man who nearly became your father-in-law—was the leader of the New York branch of the French mob. 

And he was likely responsible for the murder of your family. _At the least_.

So you took a shaky breath and looked up at Spencer, whispering, “I think I know who the unsub is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh god this was hard to write. I was getting lost in all the information i'm trying to tie together now haha. But I hope this wasn't too confusing! (more will be explained in the next chapter!). See chapter seven for a recap of Samantha Lark/Elena Webber's backstory/information on the list of trafficking victims :)
> 
> As always thank you for reading!


	26. ...I Should Not Fear the Fight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Full disclaimer: there's a brief interaction that's in French in this chapter. I don't speak French, so I'm sorry if something's incorrect.  
> Enjoy the chapter<3

You could feel Spencer, Preston, and Garcia all watching you from the doorway as you stormed through the briefing room, vigorously organizing as a way to kill time before Hotch and the rest of the team flew back from New York. It was only an hour flight, but time moved slowly. The thirty minutes that had passed since you had your revelation felt like a lifetime.

And you couldn’t sit still. You didn’t want to. You didn’t want to give yourself the chance to _really_ think about what Victor being a mob boss and your unsub (or _one_ of your unsubs, you supposed) meant for your entire life—your childhood, your prominence at The Monet Society’s events, even your previous relationship with Alexander. 

So you were cleaning up the disaster zone that the briefing room had turned into. Papers and boxes littered the floor, folders were piled high on the table with documents strewn about, and Preston had left takeout containers around the room.

Preston cleared his throat. “Maybe just… take a sec—”

You snatched up a pile of folders from the table and skimmed through their contents, cutting Preston off through clenched teeth: “My whole fucking life. I’ve known him for my whole. Fucking. Life. He was fucking there when I was fucking _born_ . How did I _fucking miss—_ ” 

One of the folders slipped out of your grip, tumbling to the ground and sending papers everywhere. You slammed the pile back down on the table with a shout of frustration. Preston jumped in surprise.

Spencer tried to pipe in, “Trauma typically has significant impacts on memor—”

“ _I fucking know that, Reid_ ,” you snapped back.

He flinched at your tone, and guilt immediately flooded your body. You squeezed your eyes shut and took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I didn’t… I… I shouldn’t have yelled. I’m sorry. I just… I know.” It had been the basis of your academic research, after all. Even now, shame heated your face as you thought about it.

Silence settled over the room. The ticking clock on the wall mocked you as seconds passed like years.

Then Garcia inhaled sharply. Her heels clacked on the floor as she walked over to you, and then you felt two hands on your shoulders. “Okay, let’s go get you some water. Take a breather. You can look at happy cute things in my office while I make the unsub presentation. How’s that sound?”

Frankly, migraine inducing. And even the thought of consuming just _water_ was nauseating, as had everything been lately. But the last thing you needed was to be losing your shit for no reason at the people around you, so maybe taking a step away for a few moments was necessary. 

So you ran a hand down your face, stopping to rub your eyes as you felt an oncoming headache settle in, and sighed, “Yeah, yeah, okay. Sounds good.”

You let Garcia nudge you out of the briefing room, and she paused in the doorway. “The two of you,” she said, gesturing to Spencer and Preston, “just… organize the room while we’re gone. Bond, or… something.”

And then the two of you walked away, missing the glance that Preston and Spencer exchanged that indicated that neither of them wanted to be left alone with the other.

***

Spencer and Preston worked to organize and clean up the room in silence for several minutes. Spencer didn’t really want to befriend him, and though he had never been the best at reading social situations, he got the feeling that Special Agent Christopher Preston didn’t particularly care for his company, either.

But, despite the current tension that ran between you and him, Spencer still cared about you deeply, and you cared about Preston. Therefore, he had to try.

Before he could even get a word out to try and initiate conversation, however, Preston asked, “So what kind of doctor are you?”

Spencer blinked. “I hold doctorates in Mathematics, Chemistry, and Engineering.” The response was automatic at this point.

“Impressive,” was all Preston said in response. His tone of voice gave Spencer the impression that Preston didn’t particularly care.

The silence returned, interrupted only by the sounds of shuffling papers. Spencer supposed it was his turn to ask a question, then. 

But, yet again, Preston beat him to it. “So you and Y/N, huh?” he asked, glancing up at Spencer from across the table while throwing a few folders on top of each other.

Spencer wasn’t quite sure how to respond to that. He supposed he should have expected the topic to come up, especially after the fraught interaction you’d all had at your apartment those few nights ago. Whenever Spencer thought back to that night, his heart twisted in his chest, and his body flooded with guilt and shame.

He knew that he didn’t have a right to simmer in self-pity over the situation; it was directly his fault. Both he and his actions, regardless of intent, had been a source of pain for you, and had clearly been reminiscent of a past betrayal. _That_ became clear to him when he’d taken a step towards you, and you flinched away from the ghost of someone else’s touch.

Spencer had felt his heart break in a different way in response.

But though Preston would perhaps be the best source of information on you currently (not that there was much else secret about you), Spencer wasn’t about to go down that route yet again. He wouldn’t pry.

So, instead, he just answered, “She’s an excellent teammate and a good friend. I’m lucky to know her,” without looking back at Preston. He moved across the room to stack a few document boxes. Then he added, “But the two of you are close friends, yes?”

Preston answered, “Ever since the academy.” He added nothing else.

And, because Spencer didn’t know what else to say, and because he _really_ _was trying_ to cut the tension in the room, he said, “You know, the evolution of friendship in today’s modern world is quite interesting when you think about it, particularly in conjunction with the rise of social media. A 1993 study on primates conducted at the University of Oxford concluded that primates were only capable of having a limited number of friendships at a time. Renowned anthropologist Robin Dunbar extrapolated from this study and estimated that _humans_ were capable of having around 150 significant and meaningful friendships at a time. But because social media has made maintaining contact with one another so much easier—if you’re into that. I’ve never been one for social media, or… smart-technology in general myself—Dunbar has since recanted his statement and has hypothesized that social media has actually made our capacity for having several friendships larger, as it has forced our memory regarding interpersonal relationships to expand. That said, other studies find that the quality of such friendships has declined since social media has lessened the need for face-to-face interaction with one another.”

Preston just stared at Spencer from his place across the room. Then, a slow grin crept across his face, and he dropped his head with a chuckle. “ _Now_ I get it,” he mumbled to himself.

“Get what?” Spencer asked.

Preston shrugged. “I get why she likes you, I meant. You’re a know-it-all. She’s a know-it-all. It makes sense.”

And despite himself, Spencer couldn’t ignore the way his heart stopped at Preston’s words before fluttering with hope. He knew you had lied that night in your apartment when you said you didn’t have feelings for him, but still, the confirmation that he was correct was nonetheless uplifting. He couldn’t stop himself from softly asking, “She likes me?”

Preston brushed a few stray papers on the table together into a pile and moved them to the nearby side table. The round table was now cleared completely of the clutter that had inhabited it for the past two days. He nodded. “Yep.”

And before Spencer could respond, or even take the time to enjoy that piece of information, Preston spoke again. His back was to Spencer, and he was staring through the blinds and into the bullpen. “I know she can be… _callous_ , at times. She’s probably the only person I know who’s more stubborn than I am. But she’s also one of the strongest and kindest people you’ll ever meet. She has a good heart despite all the shit life’s thrown at her. She doesn’t see it in herself for a second, but it’s true.”

Spencer paused his own organizing as Preston turned back around to face him. The cordial expression Preston had been wearing on his face vanished, and in its wake were eyes narrowed in severity.

Preston continued, “ _But_ she’s not nearly as tough as she makes herself out to be. Now, I don’t know what your deal together is, but I swear on my mother’s fuckin’ grave, Dr. Reid, if you do anything to hurt her… so help me God, I will beat your ass so hard that your IQ drops to zero. That clear?”

So, evidently, you had not told Preston much about your relationship with him, and after _that_ , Spencer wasn’t particularly rushing to tell Preston why, specifically, there was tension between the two of you. Though he knew Preston was speaking hyperbolically (or at least he _hoped_ he was), Spencer estimated that Preston had 2.34 inches on him and outweighed him by roughly forty pounds of pure muscle. 

Yeah, remaining on Preston’s good side was likely the best course of action.

Still, he responded, “That’s near to impossible. IQ is measured on a bell curve and averaged at one hundred. In order for someone to have an IQ of zero, they’d have to be -6.67 standard deviations below average, which is statistically _extremely_ improbable. And that’s just if you disregard the fact that the point ‘zero’ on the IQ bell curve scale is an arbitrary point in its entirety.”

Unfazed, Preston repeated, “That clear?”

So Spencer sighed through his nose. “I would never do anything with the intention of hurting her,” he answered quietly. “I care about her. Deeply. And I’m worried about what this case might do to her.”

And at that, Preston’s harsh countenance softened. “Yeah,” he said, “you and me both, bud.”

And then a noise from outside drew both of their attention. Spencer and Preston both turned to look out of the blinds and found the team striding through the bullpen, you and Garcia hot on their tails.

You seemed even more agitated than when you left.

And Preston just repeated in a quieter voice, “You and me both.”

***

“Victor Marseille was born in Corsica, France in 1947 to Eloise Chaumont, who died in a gang-related shooting two years after his birth according to French public death records, and Florent Marseille, who we suspect was the Mob leader in France who moved to Brooklyn, New York sometime between 1950 and 1953. It’s likely that Victor inherited leadership of French Mob activity in New York City from his father when he founded and publicized the private social club known as The Monet Society in 1973,” Garcia explained to the team. “There are no immigration, work, or death records for Florent Marseille, but there _are_ property records that are now under Victor’s name.”

“Florent might have known someone in the states, then, that helped him lie low for a bit,” Derek said. A unanimous murmur of agreement spread throughout the team, even though they looked towards you for confirmation.

But you said nothing. You didn’t know. You didn’t know anything about Victor’s past, evidently.

Your only contribution before this briefing was the knowledge that Victor _could not_ have been the killer himself. Victor had walked with a limp and a cane for as long as you’d known him. When you were young, he’d told you that he’d been in a traffic accident when he was younger, and his knee had never healed properly.

Now, you wondered if its real origins were far more nefarious.

Garcia continued, “Victor has two sons.” Then she clicked for the slideshow to move to the next page, and you squeezed your hands together in your lap. Two photographs—likely from passport or license records—of faces that were painfully familiar to you filled the screen, and despite how much you disliked Alexander, your heart beat a little faster at this sight of his face.

He’d grown into himself more than when you remembered, with a few grey streaks peppering his sandy brown hair. His blue eyes were just as vibrant on the screen as they were in real life. He was still just as handsome as you remembered him to be, and you hated yourself for even thinking about it like that.

“His oldest is Leonardo Marseille, currently forty-years-old. He’s taken over control of Victor’s law firm since Victor’s retirement in 2009. His youngest is Alexander Marseille, currently thirty-six, and works in the global markets division at Goldman Sachs. Both of them are also listed on the Board of Directors for The Monet Society—Leonardo as the vice president, and Alexander as the treasurer,” Garcia said.

“Mafias are typically divided into gangs known as ‘families,’” Spencer added. “While that’s not entirely restricted to blood relatives, the Marseilles _are_ in charge of the New York gang. Both of the sons must be aware of their father’s dealings, if not heavily involved in mafia activity themselves.”

Prentiss piped in, “And if they’re involved, then they must know details about all the murders.”

“That’s assuming that they aren’t the killers themselves,” JJ said. “Victor could have dispatched his sons. This is a lot of work for just one person, after all. There’s no way one person could have gotten away with all of the initial murders in 2000.”

But you shook your head, quietly interjecting, “They aren’t the killers.”

“How are you so sure?” Hotch asked. “Remember your own biases.”

You clenched your jaw. “I’m aware of my own biases. Leo was in Chicago for law school, and Alexander just…” You shook your head to yourself. “Alexander was never able to handle blood, ever since he was young. There’s no way he would be capable of something like… that.”

That seemed to satisfy Hotch.

But, even though the last thing you wanted to do was talk about it, you knew that you had to disclose the nature of your relationship with the sons. So you sighed and said, “I think it’s also worth mentioning that I was at one point engaged to Alexander.”

Subtly stunned silence.

You pressed your lips together and banished the waver from your voice. “We were dating when… it happened. He proposed four years later. And then we broke off the engagement about a year and a half after that. We did not part on good terms, but… Alexander is not the killer. And I also find it extremely hard to believe that he was aware of his father’s involvement in my family’s murder,” you finished quietly.

Hotch nodded. “Noted.”

“Alright,” Rossi began, shifting in his seat as he leaned back. “That’s all well and good, but so far all we have is speculation.” He gestured to the list of family names cross listed between the sex-trafficking cases and The Monet Society, and the information Garcia was able to put together on their family lives. “All these families were active members of New York City high society. A few of the parents worked for the same investment banks on Wall Street. Three quarters of these girls were on the same _debutante_ lists at the Waldorf Astoria. Not to mention that The Monet Society, for all its talk of being private and elite, has quite the extensive membership list. It’s not unbelievable that all the families could _coincidentally_ just be members. We don’t have concrete evidence, so how do you suppose we bust them, then?”

Spencer nodded, “He’s right. We can get local PD to hold Victor for seventy-two hours, but we can’t hold him or interrogate him ourselves unless he consents.”

Prentiss added, “And that’d be a bad move on our part to even try.”

“It’ll tip off the entire family,” Derek agreed. “Unless we can come up with a way to get proof, we can’t make a move.”

“Was this all you could find, Garcia?” JJ asked.

Garcia nodded with a sigh. “Everything that would be relevant. I couldn’t even come up with any fishy transactions.” Then, she paused, shrugging. “The man’s got a great credit score, and pays his taxes. Also, you know, transactions for ‘heroin’ and ‘young intelligent women’ would probably have already been flagged.”

“Well, it would make sense for mafia families to deal in cash and keep most information on paper rather than stored online,” Spencer said. “Victor has to have a physical ledger where he keeps track of all of his transactions, especially the ways in which he launders the money, or a contact book, or _something_.”

“So we find the books, we find our evidence,” Derek added.

And then all eyes turned to you.

You swallowed, your own eyes falling shut. The idea had crossed your mind, but you were hoping it wouldn’t have to come to this. “I think I know where it would be. And how to get it.”

When you opened your eyes, you were met with nods of encouragement. So you let out a shaky breath and continued, “The Marseilles own an estate in Southampton right on the beach. It’s a huge plot of land. Victor spent much of his time out there, actually. And whenever… my family would go over to visit, there was only one real rule: never go into his study. I’ve seen Victor genuinely angry exactly once, and that was when… when my sister and I tried to pick the lock when we were young.” You nodded to yourself. “If he’s got physical evidence of _anything_ , it’s in there. It has to be.”

“It’s worth a shot,” Prentiss answered. “You got a way in?”

“I’m… not in contact with any of them anymore. I haven’t been in years…” you explained. “But…” You inhaled deeply. “But there _is_ a way I’d be able to get into the study. If my idea works out.” 

“Hold on,” Hotch interrupted. He turned to you. “I want to remind you that you are _not_ going into the field.”

“Just hear me out, Hotch. Please,” you pleaded. You held his stare until he nodded slightly, indicating for you to explain your plan. 

You turned back to the rest of the team. “Every year, The Monet Society has this gala. It’s an art auction for the… most _elite_ members. _That_ has to be how he’s washing his money. At least the biggest way. He auctions off pieces of art worth hundreds of _thousands_ of dollars. And _everyone_ pays in cash at the end of the night, or whenever they go to pick up their art piece.” You shook your head. “Victor hosts it _at his estate_ . He hires chamber music groups to perform, security detail, valet services, and the best catering services around. The whole nine yards. And I, uh… he sends me an invitation every year. I used to go with my family, but I haven’t been since I was eighteen.” You leaned forward, bracing your forearms on the table. “ _That’s_ our way in. He gets so swept up in the festivities that he won’t notice someone slipping into the study.”

The team was quiet for a few beats.

“When’s the next gala?” JJ asked.

“January thirty-first,” you answered. “A week and a half from now.” You turned your attention back to Hotch. “Hotch, I don’t… I don’t _want_ to see him. I’m afraid of what might happen if I do, but… this is our best and quickest option.”

Hotch leveled a stare at you. He didn’t say anything at first, but after several moments, he said, “If you can get through a phone call with him—tell him you’ll be there, make up an excuse why—then we can talk.”

You swallowed despite the fact that your mouth had run dry. “I can do that,” you answered hoarsely.

“Hold on; hold on,” Prentiss interjected. “You haven’t been in _fifteen years_ , you haven’t even _spoken_ to Victor in over a decade, _and_ you’re a federal agent now. You really think he won’t have an eye on you?”

Your eyes fluttered shut. “I… realized that.” This was the part of your plan you were dreading. “I get a plus one, so I was thinking—”

“I’ll go with you,” Preston interrupted. He’d been silent this entire time, simply observing how the team operated. “We’ll play husband and wife. You keep Victor occupied; I slip into the study and find the ledger. Then we run.”

“Preston, I appreciate it, but…” you began, sighing. “But you can’t.” When his eyebrows narrowed his surprise, you continued, “I don’t mean anything by this, but you won’t fit in.” You didn’t wait for his response, instead turning your head to Spencer. “But Spencer would.”

The room fell silent again, and Spencer’s eyes widened.

Then Preston cried, “Oh, are you _kidding me_ ? Friggin’ _Gumby_ over there? Can he even take a punch? What’s he going to do if shit goes south?”

You snapped your head back to Preston. Anger warmed your body at his discrediting of Spencer’s skills. “Okay, first of all,” you seethed, “take your weird southern masculinity bullshit elsewhere. I need a _partner_ in there, not a _babysitter_ . I need someone _unassuming_ . _Second of all_ , what do you know about art?”

“I can learn whatever I need to know in the next week.”

You barked a laugh. “No, you can’t. And it’d be a waste of time while we gather the resources for everything else. Besides, you don’t have half as much experience in the field as Spencer does.”

Preston opened his mouth to respond, but was cut off by Hotch saying, “Both of you— _enough_.”

Preston snapped his mouth shut, but clenched his jaw in a silent expression of irritation.

Hotch exhaled through his nose. “Reid’s going in with Y/N. Reid, is that an issue?”

Spencer shook his head. “No,” he said quietly.

“Great,” Hotch answered, standing from his chair. He grabbed the landline phone and placed it on the table. “It’s only 9pm. Call Victor and tell him you and Reid will be attending. Garcia, record and transcribe the call, and trace it.”

“On it, sir,” Garcia chirped, opening her laptop.

“ _Wait_ ,” you interrupted. The bustle in the room paused. “There’s one last thing you all need to know.” You took another breath and blew it out. “Director Boucher will be there.”

Silence.

“He’s a member of The Monet Society. He joined the same time my parents did when he met Victor at law school. He, uh… he and my dad went to high school together. My parents and Victor and the Director—they were all long time friends,” you whispered. Then, in a stronger voice, you continued, “We’ll have to move around him, as well, because if we don’t find anything and instead get caught…” You swallowed. “All of you are getting penalized. He might even look into it when he sees me there, and we might all go down anyway. Are you sure that’s—”

“Kid,” Rossi interrupted, “I think I speak for everyone when I say that it’s a risk we’re willing to take.”

And when you looked around your teammates, their faces open and determined, you nearly teared up. You knew you had their loyalty, but it never failed to surprise you, even now.

So you nodded, sliding your cell phone out of your pocket and scrolling through the contacts until you found Victor. You’d never lost it even after all of these years. You pulled up his number, took a deep breath, and then raised a slightly trembling hand to the landline keypad.

You dialed the number and held your breath as it rang.

Once…

Twice…

And then: “ _Hello, Victor Marseille speaking._ ”

The sound of his familiar voice ringing out into the otherwise silent briefing room—a soft lilt heavily rounded by a warm French accent—made you clench your jaw. You hated the fact that it tugged on a more innocent time in your life, that you longed for the ignorance of the previous day.

You took another deep breath.

This man, however loving your memories of him were, played a role in your family’s death.

He played a role in breaking their bodies as they screamed.

He played a role in the murders of so many other innocent people, of the _trafficking_ of so many bright young girls.

Victor Marseille was just as much a stranger to you, now, as a person you passed on the street—never to be seen again, gone like a passing thought.

“ _Bonjour,_ Victor,” you managed hoarsely.

Stunned silence came from his end. On the television screen in the briefing room, a live transcript and translation was automatically typed.

“ _Y/N?_ ” he asked. He still recognized your voice.

“ _Oui_ ,” you answered, your voice a bit stronger this time. “ _Ç_ _a fait un sacré moment qu'on ne s'est pas parlé_.”

Your words scrolled across the screen as they were transcribed, the translation reading, _It’s been a long time since we last spoke._

Victor let out an incredulous laugh. You could hear shuffling in the background of his end of the phone, like he’d bolted out of his seat with surprise.

“ _Ma fille_ !” he cried, with another laugh. “ _Oh, je suis contente de t'entendre! Comment allez-vous?_ ”

_My girl. I’m so glad to hear from you. How are you?_

You couldn’t stop yourself from breathing a humorless laugh through your nose.

How are you?

If only he knew.

You cleared your throat. “I’m doing well. Listen,” you said, shifting uncomfortably in your seat, “I know this is sudden, but I received your invitation to the gala back in November. Is it too late for me to say I’m coming?”

Victor chuckled, “ _For you, it is never too late. I’m delighted that you are coming! Oh! I_ must _tell Alexan—_ ”

“Actually, Victor,” you interrupted, just so you wouldn’t have to go down that avenue of conversation with him. A cold sweat broke out across your back, and you had to close your eyes for a moment just to center yourself again. This conversation was already too long.

But you had to get through it. You had to. 

“The reason I’m coming this year is because I want to introduce you to—” You couldn’t stop your eyes from flitting to Spencer. “—my fiance,” you finished.

A muscle jumped in his jaw. He shoved his hands into his pockets.

Victor was quiet for a few moments. “ _You are getting married?_ ” he asked softly. His tone held a paradox of joy and sadness.

“Yes, Victor.” You swallowed. “I know it’s been so long since we’ve last spoken. I know I’ve been cold. But I want you to meet him because I’d like you to be at the wedding.” Then your voice became vacant. Hollow. You were making up a story as you went, true, but the best lies were encoded in truths. So softly that you were surprised anyone could hear you, you added in a husk whisper, “I need someone to walk me down the aisle, don’t I?”

You kept your gaze focused on the table. You didn’t want to see your teammates’ reactions to this. Your cheeks burned with a multitude of emotion as it was.

The few moments of silence that ensued stretched like hours. Then: “ _It would be my greatest honor, ma fille_ ,” he answered tenderly. There were another few beats of silence. “ _Though we have not been in touch, I have been keeping up with you in the news. You are still in the Behavioral Analysis Unit, yes?_ ”

Your heart rate picked up. “Yes, that’s correct.”

Was he onto you?

But instead, Victor laughed softly into the phone. “ _You are doing wonderful things, like I always knew you would. Your mother and father would be proud of the woman you’ve become. We are_ all _proud._ ”

You placed your hands in your lap, clenching them into tight fists. You weren’t sure if the tears in your eyes were from sheer rage or exhaustion, or something in between. Or maybe it was because you’d never really know whether or not your parents would be proud of you.

This was far from the career you’d planned for after all.

You weren’t even the right fucking “doctor”.

So you grit your teeth and managed a “thank you,” and before he could say anything else, you quickly said, “I have to go, but it was lovely to speak with you again. I’ll see you soon, okay?”

“ _Yes, take care, ma fille. I will see you soon_ . _Ciao._ ”

And then the call ended.

You slumped back in your seat and rubbed your eye with the heel of your palm.

“Didn’t know you spoke French, Y/N,” Rossi said, as if in an attempt to lighten the heaviness that had settled over the room.

You nodded. “And Spanish and Mandarin.” And when you looked back at him, his brows raised in surprise, you added miserably, “I was planning on being a neurologist in New York City. I wanted to know the most common languages so I could always talk with my patients. So I learned them.”

A beat of silence.

Then Hotch asked, “Y/N, are you alright?”

Absolutely not.

You sighed, “I will be once this is over.” It felt like a lie as the words rolled off your tongue, and based on the skeptical look from Preston, you wondered if you’d ever really be alright.

But you forced yourself out of your seat, standing and bracing your hands on the wooden table. “So,” you said, “how’s this going to go down?”

And so the team began to plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's 5:16am as I post this lol  
> i'm so excited for the next few chapters!! thank you for reading!! <3


	27. I Years had been from Home

The next week and a half passed quickly as you and the rest of the BAU gathered whatever resources you could without alerting your unit chief or any of the other higher ups. Hotch, Prentiss, and Rossi cashed in favors with other divisions—a few agents in Tactical Operations and Anti-Trafficking had come on board the operation—and you had spent the entire time going over the layout of Victor’s estate with Spencer and telling him any personal information he might need to know about you to sell your “to-be-wed” status at the gala. There hadn’t been time to delve into all the unspoken tension between you; you’d shoved it to the side, and Spencer seemed fine enough to leave it alone for now.

And while briefing the rest of the team on the layout for Victor’s estate just the previous day, Derek had laughed to himself with a shake of his head. “What kind of asshole needs _that much_?”

And though you still owned your family’s home out on the beach in Southampton, a short twenty minute drive from Victor’s estate, you couldn’t help but agree. As a child, you hadn’t realized the privilege that your family’s wealth provided. Going through every square foot of Victor’s estate now just made everything seem… ridiculous, in retrospect.

In response, Spencer had commented, “Well, he does live in Sagaponack. Despite only having a population of 322, Sagaponack has the most expensive zip code in the United States, rivaled only by Atherton, California. The Hamptons in general have historically been notorious for being a getaway for wealthy New Yorkers since it changed from being an agricultural and fishing community in the nineteenth—”

Derek had cut him off with, “It’s hot real estate. Got it, Reid.” 

That had been when you took time aside with Spencer himself to go over blueprints.

Now, you were in your designated room at the motel you were all staying at in Hampton Bays, the night before the gala. Even inside the building, the salty ocean nearby infiltrated all your senses—both a welcome memory of the past and a foreboding cloud of what was to come.

The last time you’d been to the Hamptons was when you’d visited the cemetery. And even then, that was after fifteen years of hiding.

But you supposed you could hide no more.

You lied back on the motel bed, shutting your eyes as another wave of nausea hit. With every day closer to the thirty-first, you had felt increasingly sick, like your body itself was rejecting what you had to do. The idea of being back in that estate, having to be within close proximity to the Marseilles, having to _interact_ with them again, pretending that you knew nothing of Victor’s involvement in your family’s murder— 

You pressed the heel of your palms into your eyes, letting out a groan of frustration.

You and Spencer had gone through several potential outcomes, back up plans, and statistical probabilities of failure based on your understanding of Victor’s character and habits. But you still hadn’t interacted with any of them for so long.

All you really knew about any of them currently was that Alexander still had feelings for you. If Boucher telling you that a month ago wasn’t confirmation itself, Alexander’s phone call to you during New Year’s was. You’d thought about ways to use that to your advantage if need be, but…

The thought made your gut rile again.

You blew out a heavy breath, dragging your hands down your face. You stole a glance at your wristwatch.

It was only 11pm. Hotch had told you all to get an early night’s sleep. You were all to be awake and ready to go over plans and logistics tomorrow morning by 8am. 

You’d already showered and gotten into your sleepwear for the night, but you didn’t think you’d be sleeping at all, really.

And your mind wouldn’t stop reeling through all of the worst case scenarios—Spencer getting caught in the study, or getting targeted by Boucher afterwards, or dyi— 

You sat up abruptly.

Maybe you should go over some details with Spencer again. Just in case.

You stood from the bed and left your room, walking straight across the hallway to Spencer’s door. You raised your fist to the polished wood but didn’t knock. Your hand was frozen, suspended in midair with your knuckles just barely brushing the wood. Your face felt warm.

What were you doing? This wasn’t necessary. You were letting your fear get the best of you, and Spencer didn’t need to see that.

Maybe you should just try to go to bed.

But as you turned away to retreat back into your room, Spencer’s door opened, and he nearly crashed into you as he took a step out.

He recoiled, eyes widening briefly in surprise. Then his brows furrowed in confusion. “Hi…” he drew out.

And heat erupted across your cheeks at having been caught. “Hi!” you chirped back, your voice embarrassingly loud and high. You cleared your throat. “Hi. What are… what are you up to?”

His eyebrows furrowed even deeper. “I was going to go get something from the vending machines.”

“Oh, yeah,” you laughed, “I walked by them earlier. They have a huge selection of nuts. All those healthy fats, and… vitamin E, and… magnesium. Great ‘night before undercover work’ snack.”

“Yeah…” He gave you a tight lipped smile.

You wished a black hole would appear beside you and suck you in. Spaghettification via black hole density seemed much better than this humiliation.

Spencer spoke again: “Did you… want to come in?”

You sucked in a breath. “Um, I just… wanted to go over everything one last time before we recap as a team tomorrow morning, but now I’m realizing how stupid that is, so I’m just going to…” You quickly spun on your heel to march back into your own room, but Spencer grabbed your hand before you could take a step away, spinning you back to face him.

“No, no,” he said. “It’s not stupid. We can talk over details.” And when you hesitated, he smiled lightly and added, “It would give me more peace of mind, too.”

So you nodded, and when he opened the door wider, you walked in and took a seat on the foot of his bed. He only had the desk light on, and when you finally looked at him fully, you saw that he was dressed in his pajamas already.

“I’m sorry if you were about to go to bed,” you said quietly as he took up seat beside you, leaving a few inches of distance.

Spencer breathed a laugh. “Truth be told, I don’t think I would have fallen asleep any time soon, anyway.” Then he lifted his legs onto the mattress, turning his body towards you as he sat cross legged. “Did you have something in particular that you wanted to go over?”

You thought for a moment. There was no point in going over the plan— _that_ would be dealt with over the course of several hours tomorrow—but making sure you were still on the same page with your backstories and “relationship” seemed pertinent, if for no other reason than you soothe some of your own anxieties.

So you answered, “Can you just… I just want to make sure that you remember everything we talked about. About topics to _not_ bring up, and about… our backstory, and about… my life.”

He raised his eyebrows. “I don’t have a problem with it, but you _do_ know that I have an excellent memory. Notoriously so.” At your pained expression, he added, “I haven’t forgotten anything. In fact, if you want me to do so, I can recite sentence by sentence the _last time_ we went over it, if it’ll help you feel better.”

At that, you couldn’t help but breathe a laugh. “No, no, you’re right. I’m just… I’m just paranoid.”

He pressed his lips together again. A silence settled between you two, and you looked down at your lap and found the skin around your nails irritated and red. You hadn’t even realized you’d been picking at them.

But Spencer’s voice both broke the silence and interrupted your thoughts. “Actually, though,” he began, “I _do_ have a question, if that’s alright.”

You blinked. “Yeah, anything.”

“I was just thinking that if we’re pretending to be… _engaged_ , and we’re going in as Dr. Spencer Reid and Dr. Y/N Y/L/N—” You couldn’t stop your internal flinch at the title. “—I feel like I should know what you studied. You know the ins and outs of all my research, of what I wrote my dissertations on, but I don’t even know the _name_ of yours. All I know is that you have a PhD in computational clinical neuroscience, and that’s not… much to go off of.”

He had a point. If you had to sell being engaged, then you had to be prepared for anything. And questions about your respective studies were bound to pop up given the type of people you’d be surrounded by tomorrow—high ranking and status doctors of all kinds, long tenured professors and other well regarded academics, Wall Street sharks, and more.

But you turned your gaze down to your hands in your lap again.

Without looking up at him, and with heat flooding the back of your neck and your cheeks again, you quietly said, “My dissertation was titled ‘Manipulating Amygdala Function in Post Traumatic Stress Disorder Patients and Rerouting Neural Pathways: A Computational Model to Separate Memory and Emotion’.”

You dared a glance at him, and he’d gone still with intrigue. You supposed there was no avoiding this truth—your second greatest shame.

So you looked back down and continued, “Computational neuroscience at its core focuses on chemical and electrical signalling in the brain and how that pertains to cognitive processing and thought. It explains those biophysical phenomena through computer simulations of neural circuits, through computational models of neural networks, through artificial intelligence, and various models of learning.” 

You swallowed. “My research was… I worked with PTSD patients—anyone from car accident survivors to rescued prisoners of war—and studied their brains. I put them through fMRIs and covered their heads with EEGs time after time and showed them various kinds of stimuli to see how it provoked the mental injury. I recorded every reaction—every electrical signal, every chemical change—and uploaded them to a program I’d developed for it, but specifically focused on the greatest fear reactions and amygdala responses.

“Trauma changes your brain significantly. It damages your ventromedial prefrontal cortex and inhibits proper emotional regulation. Amygdala responses become greatly exaggerated to emotional stimuli. Cortisol wreaks havoc on your brain and body. But that kind of change—that neural plasticity—is what I was studying, because even though neural pathways and connections in adulthood can only really be changed through significant events or circumstances, _like trauma_ , they can _still_ be changed.”

And now came the shameful part.

So you shifted in your seat and wrung your hands together, your voice growing hoarse. “And the thing about memory retrieval is that you don’t just retrieve a memory; you retrieve _emotions_ as well. And emotions and memory are specifically fixed together with PTSD, and as the brain compulsively retrieves memories of that trauma, the body and brain are flooded with cortisol and adrenaline, to a point where it at times can obscure reality and send the patient back to the time of that trauma. And the more often the patient is reminded of that trauma, the more set in stone _those_ neural pathways become, and the easier it is to slip into that false reality of the past, to remember everything.

“So I designed and coded a computational cognitive model, a simulation, of an injured brain based on all of those patients—sort of a… composite, averaged brain of all of them—healing itself through specific external electrical manipulation. It disrupted these new pathways and connections, and upon memory retrieval, momentarily inhibited amygdala function as to block the onslaught of memory and fear that would otherwise incapacitate the patient. And after a fair amount of time, those memories would perhaps not cause such dysfunction and could potentially be forgotten all together.”

You paused. “Maybe today it isn’t quite so revolutionary, but ten years ago, it was a…” You let out a soft bitter laugh. “It was a huge deal in the field. My advisor joked that if I’d kept going, there could’ve been a Nobel Prize in medicine in my future, but I think she just felt bad for me.”

“Why would she have felt bad for you? That’s incredible research,” Spencer asked quietly.

And you finally looked back at him, a sad, tortured smile on your face. “Because a simulation means nothing if it can’t be applied to real life.” You shrugged. “I couldn’t… at the end of the day, it was all for nothing. I couldn’t figure out a way to make it reality. I couldn’t get it off of the computer screen. A _real_ brain is just so… inconsistent and unpredictable that it was impossible. And at the time, the tech could only take me so far, and mental health research and resources weren’t nearly as advanced as they are today. Ten years makes a world of a difference. And then…” Your mouth went dry as you thought back to that point in your life, to the sterile scent of a hospital that you could still smell in your sleep, and a shudder wracked your body. Your voice lowered to a whisper. “And then I just cut my losses after I got my PhD.”

Spencer was quiet for a few moments. Then, he asked, “I still don’t understand why you don’t acknowledge any of this. Why are you so ashamed of—”

“You don’t get it, do you?” you cut him off. “The _only reason_ I went down that path to begin with was because I was trying to figure out a way to _make myself_ forget. I was trying to fix _my own_ fucked up brain, and I _couldn’t_.”

His eyes widened, and you clenched your jaw to try and stop your lip from quivering as all the emotions you’d repressed ricocheted around your body like a stray bullet.

But still, when you spoke again, your voice broke. “Do you know how awful that is? How _selfish_ ?” You gestured miserably to Spencer. “You get a PhD because you want to change the world with your research. You do the research because you want to help other people. I didn’t do it to help other people. I _only_ did it because I wanted to help _myself_ . That’s not what a doctor does. That’s what a _coward_ does.” 

Your breath hitched, and as your eyes began watering, you repeated in a whisper edged with a distressed whine, “That’s what a coward does, Spencer.”

And Spencer didn’t respond. He simply stared at you in the dimly lit room, his face soft and neutral in an expression that you couldn’t read.

Then you exhaled a humorless laugh through your nose, shaking your head and turning your gaze back down to your lap so you wouldn’t have to look at him. “You know,” you began, “I still keep up with the field in case someone smarter than me ever figures out how to erase memories in humans. A bunch of researchers managed to do it in snails, but nothing concrete for people yet.”

And then you looked back up at him, one tear falling down your cheek. You brushed it away before it could get far, and you whispered with a sad smile, “All I ever wanted was to forget, Spencer. That’s _still_ all that I want. And that makes me a coward.”

You were finished.

And Spencer still didn’t say anything.

So you blew out a breath and forced another smile on your face. You were sure it was more reminiscent of a grimace than anything else. You dropped your hands back into your lap and sighed. “I should… I should go to bed. We have a lot to do tomorrow.” You stood from where you sat on the edge of the bed and looked down at him. “Goodnight, Spencer.”

You had barely taken one step past him when he shot up from his seat, his hand quickly yet gently grabbing your bicep to spin you back around to face him. And then both of his hands were on your upper arms, holding you in place.

“What?” you asked. But when you looked up at him, you found his eyes shut tight, his brows furrowed deeply as if he were in pain.

He opened his eyes, though they remained narrow with an emotion you still couldn’t read. “Do you _hear yourself_?”

Your own eyes fluttered shut. “Spencer—”

“ _No_ , I—just—” He let out a quick exasperated exhale. “I understand advanced thermo and fluid dynamics and can solve partial differential equations for related problems within a second. I know and can deliver in depth insight to obscure events from history that have been forgotten by the general public for _centuries_ . I know how to speak several languages and can understand every romantic and germanic language there is. But what I consistently _fail_ to understand—what alludes even _my_ intellect every single time I’m confronted with this… _inane_ concept—is how you don’t understand how wonderful you are.” 

You kept your eyes shut, and you dropped your chin to your chest so he wouldn’t see your bottom lip quivering. “I’m not that—”

“ _Stop_.” The command in his tone made you flinch, and his voice softened in response. “Do you remember what you said at Rossi’s during his New Year’s toast?” he asked.

“Spencer…”

“You said that you were inspired by a Dickinson poem to join the bureau. ‘If I can stop one heart from breaking, I shall not live in vain.’” His grip on your arms tightened. “Even after… after everything you went through, after every supposed ‘failure’ you think you’ve had, you made a choice to actively help other people— _save_ other peoples’ _lives_ — _every single day_ . How does that make you a coward? How does that make you a failure? _Please_ . Explain it to me, because I _don’t understand_.”

But you couldn’t explain it.

Because there was still so much he didn’t know. That dark part of your history—the story that you could still barely stand to acknowledge, let alone speak about—taunted you from a deep recess of your mind.

So you just hugged your arms to your body and kept your gaze turned towards the ground.

Then you heard Spencer sigh through his nose. He removed his hands from you and let them rest at his sides. The room grew quiet.

And then: “Y/N, I have to tell you something.” His voice was quiet. Husky. Almost afraid.

And when you finally looked back up and locked eyes with him, you understood why. And for a split second, you found yourself lost in his gaze again, bathing in its radiance and warmth and adoration.

But as he opened his mouth, you blurted out, “No.”

His mouth snapped shut, and his face quickly turned red.

You quickly continued, “I can’t… have that conversation right now. Not now. Not before tomorrow.”

Because words only had power when spoken. They only had influence when processed. And you could not go into the operation tomorrow having confirmed what you suspected he was about to say. 

Even though you already knew, you couldn’t hear it yet.

“But,” you added gently, holding his stare this time, “after this is all over, I’d like to know what you have to say, if that’s alright with you.”

His face softened with understanding. “Okay,” he said back, “but… if not that, then I need you to know that I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for hurting you, for betraying your trust.” He looked down, shaking his head to himself, and despite the angle, you could still see his face scrunching up with distress and guilt. “And… I don’t know what Alexander did to you—” You stiffened at even the mere mention of his name in this context. “—but I would never intend to… to…” He trailed off with a sigh, like he thought his apology was for naught.

So you reached out and gingerly took one of his hands in yours. “I know, Spencer,” you murmured. You gave it a squeeze, and he looked back up at you. You managed a shaky smile. “I know.”

Then you dropped his hand and took a step back. “Goodnight, Spencer,” you said again.

One corner of his mouth quirked up quickly into a brief smile. “Goodnight,” he echoed.

And you turned away.

But you didn’t even take a step before his hand was on your bicep, turning you back to face him yet again. But this time, before you could ask anything or even voice your surprise, his lips were pressed to yours.

It wasn’t a desperate kiss, nor one that would lead to anything else. Rather, it was a silent promise communicated through his sacred touch—a promise of what you could be to each other if only you were brave enough to open your heart completely. And though Spencer still did not know all of the worst bits about you, though you still had your greatest shames and secrets folded away in the darkest corner of the bleeding wound you called a heart, you finally saw what life could be if you allowed yourself permission to simply try and live—truly and authentically live.

And perhaps it was that kiss that finally made you realize, or perhaps it was the tangible justice that was but a day away, but for the first time since you began to understand what Spencer meant to you, you were not afraid of the possibility of that future.

So you threw your arms around his neck, his arms winding around your torso with one hand cradling the back of your head, and you kissed him back with the same message, that same promise of your own making—that, when all of this was over, you would not run away like you had every time in the past. 

You would let yourself, at long last, live in the home he provided just by existing. You would let yourself come in from the cold and harsh world into which you’d exiled yourself. You would simply try to finally let yourself rest.

You would try. For yourself, you would try. That was all you could do, anyway.

So you kissed him.

And kissed him.

And kissed him.

The two of you stayed like that for several moments, letting the world, the mission, the fears of what tomorrow would bring, fade into the background, until he pulled away, leaving you one last soul filling kiss on your lips. Then he leaned his forehead against yours. You could feel his slightly shallower breaths fanning out across your face.

And when you opened your eyes at last, you saw him staring at you.

You smiled.

He smiled back.

And then, for the third time that night, you stepped away from him. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” you whispered.

“See you tomorrow,” he said back.

And this time, when you turned around, he didn’t stop you.

When you returned to your room, you immediately headed to your bed and flopped backwards onto it. You rolled over onto your side, right on the edge of your bed, and when you looked down at the floor, you found your purse where you’d left it open.

You reached in and pulled one of the two books that was sticking out of it, flipping over onto your back again and extending your arms to the ceiling with the book in your hands to stare at the cover.

Geoffrey Chaucer’s _Troilus and Criseyde_. Spencer’s belated Christmas present to you.

You kept it in your bag with you at all times ever since he’d given it to you, even during the past two weeks of tension and turmoil between the two of you.

You hugged it to your chest briefly before sitting up and putting it back into your purse beside the other book—your collection of Dickinson poems.

And then you turned the lights out and set your alarm for 6am.

There was one last thing you needed to do before the mission.

***

When you arrived at the blue house by the ocean the following morning, the sun was just beginning to peak over the horizon. Stray gravel crunched under the weight of your car as you drove up the driveway and parked outside of the home’s built-in garage.

You swiped your purse from the passenger’s side seat and exited the car. 

Just off the side of the driveway, there was a stone pathway that led up to the front door. You followed it, walking up the front porch steps and pausing in front of the door.

The wooden porch swing that rarely got used even when this house was alive was cracked and weathered. Overgrown weeds littered the pathways, the sprawling lawn, and the otherwise empty flower beds. A bird had made its nest in a hole in the patio roof.

But you just stared at the double doors in front of you. Fogged glass bordered either side of the door. There was a thick layer of dirt and dust on the outside.

And, like it often did, your mind wandered to Dickinson:

_I years had been from home,_

_And now, before the door,_

_I dared not open, lest a face_

_I never saw before_

_Stare vacant into mine_

_And ask my business there._

_My business, — just a life I left._

_Was such still dwelling there?_

You took a deep breath and dug your keys from your pocket, unlocking the doors, opening them, and taking a step into the house. Immediately, you were greeted with the soft chime of the security system. You stepped to the side of the door to where the security keypad was, entering in the four-digit code—the day of the month you were born followed by the day of the month Elizabeth was born.

The chiming stopped, and you were left with the hollow silence of the home.

You closed the door behind you and looked around with your feet still rooted to the ground.

In front of you, the staircase led up to the bedrooms. To your right, there was a formal dining area. To your left and through a wide arched doorway was the formal living room. All of the furniture was wrapped tightly in plastic. Everything was covered in a thin layer of dust.

You paid a housekeeping service to come by every three months just to make sure nothing had broken, or flooded, or fallen apart, and to just keep things clean if possible. The last time they would have come would have been early December. It seemed as if the dust had reaccumulated since then.

Without thinking much more on it, you walked straight ahead, past the staircase and down the wide hallway. You walked through the threshold and into the kitchen. The room extended to the left—an open floor plan into an informal dining area. The entire back wall was glass, interrupted only by a sliding glass door between the kitchen and dining area.

Warm red rays of sunlight were streaming into the house, half obscured by grey clouds that would grow denser as the day passed. You could see the beach, the ocean, from where you stood.

You swallowed thickly.

_I fumbled at my nerve,_

_I scanned the windows near;_

_The silence like an ocean rolled,_

_And broke against my ear._

And just because you couldn’t help it, you walked over to the door, unlocking it and sliding it open. Immediately, you were met by the far off crying of seagulls, the crashing of ocean waves onto the shore, and the scent of saltwater.

The ghost of a past smile rose to your lips as you stepped out onto the deck. The wood, weathered and cracking from years of no maintenance, creaked under your feet, but you didn’t stop until you reached the railing. In the middle of the far end of the deck was a small staircase, leading down to the path bordered by dune grass that still grew thick on either side.

A cold wind blew by, carrying droplets of ocean spray that broke upon your face like frigid freckles.

And you closed your eyes. 

If you concentrated hard enough, you could still hear that beach on better days. Elizabeth’s boisterous laughter echoed out into the ocean like the waves could carry her joy around the world. Music played from inside the home. Water splashed around your ankles as she dragged you in with her. 

You could practically see your footprints in the sand behind you, a frozen reminder of stolen innocence.

And when you opened your eyes, you inhaled deeply as if you could take in this entire place to give you strength and courage for tonight.

Then you turned back and reentered the house, closing and locking the door behind you. You didn’t have much time to waste, so you walked back to the front hall and up the wooden stairs. Your fingers dragged along the bannister, collecting a layer of dust onto them.

And then you arrived at the second floor. Immediately to your right was the master bedroom—your parents’ old room—and their study across the hall, and to the left down the wide hall were several bedrooms—yours and Elizabeth’s, and guest rooms as well.

You turned to the right and approached the double door that led into the master bathroom. You placed your hand on the doorknob and…

Froze.

You hadn’t been in here since before they died. Even when overseeing the movers after their murder—who transferred all clothing and personal items from your childhood apartment in the City to here—you hadn’t set foot in the house.

You had just given the movers a floor plan with instructions and hoped for the best. 

So you swallowed and tightened your grip on the doorknob.

_I laughed a wooden laugh_

_That I could fear a door,_

_Who danger and the dead had faced,_

_But never quaked before._

_I fitted to the latch_

_My hand, with trembling care,_

_Lest back the awful door should spring,_

_And leave me standing there._

Then you took a deep breath and opened the door.

Cardboard boxes wrapped in plastic wrap littered the floor. You coughed as you were met with a flurry of dust. But you wasted no time and instead headed straight to the tremendous walk in closet.

All of the clothes hanging in here were also wrapped in plastic, most of the articles obscured by dust or the sheer volume of clothing that had been stuffed in here, but you knew exactly where to go. It had been left right beside the door, after all, wrapped tightly in a garment bag.

You unzipped the garment bag to inspect the article of clothing inside, and despite yourself, you couldn’t help but smile fondly at what you found—at how it hadn’t decayed with time, still in the pristine condition your mother always kept it in.

You already had your gown for the event. You’d bought it and had gotten it tailored the day after telling Victor you’d be attending the gala. But this… this would help complete your ensemble.

It was a white fur shawl. You ran your fingers down the length of it, still soft to the touch after all these years. Your mother had worn it at her wedding, and it had made frequent appearances at events throughout your life. 

She had told you that if you ever got married, she would give it to you to wear at your wedding.

You supposed introducing your fake fiance to Victor at the gala was close enough.

So you zipped up the garment bag and took it off the hanger. Then you exited the walk-in closet and headed to the hallway.

You allowed yourself one last glance at the room before shutting the door behind you, the quiet _click_ echoing down the hall.

You checked your watch—7:14am.

It had been a fifteen minute driver from the motel to your house. You had to move quickly if you wanted to finish what you needed to finish and get back on time.

So you headed down the hall to where your old room and Elizabeth’s old room sat across the hall from one another. Without giving yourself too much time to think about it again, you opened the door to Elizabeth’s room and took a step in.

It was slightly smaller than yours, but no less grand. The walls had been painted a pale lavender and were covered with pictures of her and her friends as well as posters of her favorite bands and singers.

There were still clothes strewn in various places from the last time she’d been here. Elizabeth tended to be a slob. Her bookshelf was still overstuffed with homework assignments and old stuffed animals and mementos from events or parties she’d been to—more random accoutrement than actual books.

You pressed your lips together to stop them from quivering. You didn’t have time for sentimentality. 

So you moved to her vanity dresser. The surface was littered with jewelry and old makeup. But there was a jewelry box seated in the corner.

You opened it and took out two pearl studs and a matching necklace.

Pearls had never really been your choice of jewelry growing up, but Elizabeth always wore them like they had been made specifically for her. You dug into your purse and retrieved a small pouch, storing the jewelry away in them.

Then you walked back out into the hallway, this time heading across the hall and into your old bedroom.

Your eyes softened at the sight. Everything was exactly as you had left it.

Various awards, as well as a photocopy of your Bachelor’s Degree, were hanging in the cluster over your bed. The far wall was entirely a floor to ceiling bookshelf, overflowing with all kinds of books ranging from classics to the occasional crappy indulgent romance book to published dissertations and college textbooks to books of sheet music. Against the left wall, there was an upright piano. A few stray pieces of sheet music were still propped up on the music rack.

But you couldn’t dwell on the nostalgia of this room. Instead, you walked over to your bed and reached into your purse, taking out the copy of _Troilus and Criseyde_ and the collection of Dickinson poems.

You placed them both on your bed.

This one was a silent promise to yourself—to return to this house and finally dispel the ghosts that still inhabited it. You knew you couldn’t bear to sell the home, and you weren’t sure when you would muster the strength to renovate and renew the house. But for the first time since everything had happened, you felt like you might be able to. 

Eventually, you would be able to let go of them.

You just had to get through tonight first.

You were jolted from your trance when your phone buzzed in your purse. You dug it out and read the screen:

_Aaron Hotchner: Meet in room 107 at 8am sharp._

You blew out a breath. You just had one last thing you needed to get.

So you headed out of your bedroom and closed the door behind you, walking down the stairs to the side door—one that led out into the garage. You swiped the garage door remote and pair of keys from the key rack beside the garage door and walked into the garage, closing and locking the door behind you. Then you walked to the single car that rested in the garage, covered by a tremendous sheet to protect it from the dust, and yanked the sheet off.

And there it was—a bright red 1969 Chevrolet Camaro Convertible.

Your dad had only ever driven it around in the Hamptons. It was more for show than functionality, but you’d had your father’s old mechanic—still in business after all these years—come by to check on the car to see if it could still run. He’d given it a few tune ups and upgrades and filled the tank for you, finishing just two days prior to the team’s arrival.

And, just like Elizabeth’s pearls and your mother’s shawl, this car would be in attendance at the gala. You could not bring them back to life, you could not _show_ them what you were doing, but you could bring these little pieces of them—these relics of the past—with you as you at long last got them the justice they so sorely deserved.

They would give you the strength to get through tonight.

So you slid into the driver’s seat, dropping your purse and the garment bag into the passenger’s seat, before flexing your fingers against the wheel. Your father had let you drive the car once in your youth—a rare moment of connection between the two of you, as you had always been closer to your mother—making sure you knew the ins and outs of the vehicle so you wouldn’t damage it in any way during the drive.

Lucky for you, you had an excellent memory.

So you dug the key into the ignition and felt the car’s engine roar to life. Then you pressed the remote garage door opener and backed out of the garage, passing your own car as it automatically shut again. 

You’d come back to get it after the operation was over, but for now…

_I moved my fingers off_

_As cautiously as glass,_

_And held my ears, and like a thief_

_Fled gasping from the house._

For now, you drove back to the hotel, letting the cold seaside air whip through your hair as a world of nostalgia enveloped you with courage.

For now, you had a mission to prepare for, and a gala to attend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a lot of fun with this chapter :) Get excited!! it's about to go down!!
> 
> Thank you for reading<3


	28. Red is the Fire's Common Tint

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for the Marseilles' estate, I was drawing a lot of inspiration from the Carrington manor from "Dynasty" on Netflix. The interior is heavily inspired by that, if you want to look up pictures bc I cannot describe houses to save my life.

Representing both the ire of war and the ardor of love, red was surely a color of paradox.

Red was the color of Ares flying into battle, brandishing his sword high in the air as he raced towards his enemies on a chariot. It was the color of battlefields after one’s victory and another’s defeat. It was the color of madness, of frenzy, of rage.

Red represented rage.

But red was also the color of Aphrodite’s lips, stealing forbidden kisses in the night and stirring strife among the gods. It was the color of lost and wild nights, of skin to skin contact as lovers spurn each other to blissful delirium. It was the color of fire, of warmth, of passion. 

Red represented passion.

But above anything, on the night of the gala, red represented you. 

Dressed in a scarlet gown, you sat behind the wheel of the convertible with the roof raised over the car. The dress was low-cut with thin shoulder straps and a cinched waist. The a-line silhouette flared out past your hips, interrupted only by a slit that went up to the middle of your left thigh, and ended just an inch off the floor, where the tips of your black heels could barely peek out. You would have picked something more form fitting, but you needed the extra skirt room to obscure the gun strapped high on your right thigh—just in case.

It was moments like these that you were glad to carry a Glock 19. The size made for easy concealment.

On your left wrist was a silver watch provided to you by Tactical Operations with a distress button built into the side designed to look like the crown of the watch. Spencer had his own hand held distress button, no bigger than his thumb, deep in his pocket. Victor’s estate was too big for either of you to wear a wire; it was too far away to transmit anything to where the rest of the teams would be stationed, so you had these for emergencies.

Your hair was swept to the right side, and your ears were adorned with Elizabeth’s pearl studs with the matching necklace hanging high on your chest. Your mother’s shawl was fastened around your shoulders, and when you glanced up at the rearview mirror, spotting the two trucks that held the members of the BAU and other FBI personnel that had agreed to join the case, you checked over your makeup. It had taken you nearly an hour to do, unsurprising considering how long it had been since you’d needed to present yourself in such a manner.

The last time you’d seen yourself dressed up even _half_ this nicely had been the night of the murder fifteen years ago.

Perhaps it was fitting.

You were a walking tribute to that little girl who wore red to stand out, to be bold and loud and vibrant in a noisy world, who’d had everything she loved stolen from her over the course of a few hours. Tonight, for one night only, you would acknowledge her in everything that she was. You would bring her back to life—let her get the justice that was owed to her—by wearing her story on your skin, embracing how the color red represented the bloodshed of your family, the rage that now fueled you, and the fire that burned within you.

For one night only, you would return to being that girl.

And though you had grown significantly from being her, though she represented a lifestyle in which you no longer wanted any part, you had to recede into that character: the woman you could have been had your life not been marred by tragedy and betrayal.

And symbolic of that, shining in the passing street lights as you drew nearer and nearer to the Marseilles’ estate, was a simple white gold ring with a small round cut black diamond at the top. You’d gotten it for yourself when you’d gotten your gown, and when you had shown it to the team earlier in the evening, you’d gotten a few raised brows at your choice. None of them had commented on it, though, and you were glad for it.

You didn’t want to have to explain your rationale—that you had _despised_ the gaudy and ostentatious ring with which Alexander had proposed to you, and when you inevitably saw him, you wanted to have something on your own terms, something that represented everything opposite of him.

You’d spent so long—even years after the end of your relationship—resenting yourself for hating that ring, for being so _spoiled_ to do so. Any girl should have been so lucky to receive it, after all: a tremendous emerald cut diamond, surrounded by smaller diamonds, on a bright gold band _also_ encrusted with diamonds. You supposed it _was_ pretty, but you’d simply never been one for something so… _flashy_ , even before that fateful December in 2000.

It took you awhile to understand that it wasn’t so much the ring that was so off-putting to you, but the realization that Alexander didn’t really know you in the way that he should have, nor did he really care to get to know you—at least not the woman you’d become everything had happened. He’d never really accepted that you could never be the same girl after that, and so he’d tried to carve something new of you, something more in line with his own ideal of a girlfriend and wife.

And you, so numb and afraid and alone, and still _so young_ , had gone along with it for several years in your own way. He was quite literally all you had left in terms of socialization aside from your lab employees; you’d always been too busy for any other real friends growing up, and he had been your first love. You didn’t want to lose him, too, so you had just decayed in silence until you couldn’t hold back your pain any longer. 

And that had been when things started going so terribly with him.

At the thought of it, your hands tightened around the wheel, and your foot involuntarily pressed a bit harder down on the pedal, speeding up the car slightly. You hated that part of your life, that story you _still_ couldn’t acknowledge without falling into darkness.

But then you felt a warmth on your shoulder, and you relaxed a little bit.

Spencer kept his hand there for a few moments, his thumb sweeping over the swell of your shoulder as a comforting gesture. “We’re almost there,” he said softly.

“Two and a half more miles,” you whispered back.

And the rest of the drive fizzled back into silence. Soon, you saw the trucks behind you vanish as the rest of the team assumed their positions. Garcia had been able to hack into the Marseilles’ security cameras so they could have eyes on you, but there were only cameras pointed at the entrance, portions of the main room where the festivities would be taking place, and around the perimeter of the estate.

Still, knowing that they could watch over the two of you even in some capacity was comforting.

You turned one final right and then—

You sucked in a breath. You were met with a long line of hedges on your left, obscuring the metal fence that ran around the perimeter of the estate. There was a line of cars in front of you, and you slowed into your place at the back of the line. Within seconds, a car had stopped behind you.

Your eyes flickered to the rearview mirror—where an ever growing number of cars had begun to line up—to the car in front of you, slowly inching closer and closer to the main gate. You blew out a heavy breath through your mouth, letting your cheeks puff up, and you flexed your fingers around the steering wheel.

Then Spencer gently ran his hand down your right arm to your wrist, where he gently tugged for you to let go of the steering wheel. He guided your hand onto the center console, where he intertwined his fingers with yours. His thumb glided over yours.

“Are you ready?” he asked quietly.

You managed to breathe a laugh. “Absolutely not. Are you?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be to steal documents from a mob boss.” He paused, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “Are you sure you’ll be able to distract them?”

You nodded as you arrived at the gates, finally gaining sight into the estate. The road and line of cars led up a slight hill to a roundabout circling a stone fountain right in front of the estate. Searchlights had been placed by the fountain, shining up towards the sky. There was a grand portico over the entryway and double front doors supported by marble pillars. And as patrons arrived in front of the double doors, you could see valets driving the cars off onto the lawn, parking them all in neat rows in the darkness.

You glanced at the time—9:13pm. The event started at 9pm, so you were right on time to be fashionably late.

Then Spencer said, “They’re using metal detectors by the door.”

Your eyes snapped back up and squinted, focusing on the front door as you slowly drove closer and closer. The security detail by the doors were stopping every patron before they entered and quickly waving metal detector wands over their bodies.

“That’s new,” you mumbled to yourself.

“Y/N, we’re both carrying. I have three guns on my person.”

Right.

And you were getting close to the front.

“Shit,” you breathed. You looked around the car, at the tiny backseat area, and then down at yourself. You quickly shed your mother’s shawl from your body and laid it out on the center console. “We’re going to have to go in unarmed.” You reached your left hand into the slit of your gown to unbuckle your thigh holster. “Put them in there. I’ll just… shove it under the seat.”

Using your mother’s shawl for such a purpose made your heart ache, but it couldn’t be helped. 

So, only two cars away from the valet, you laid your Glock 19 in the shawl as Spencer quickly unholstered the two guns that had been resting underneath his tuxedo jacket. He dropped them beside your gun on the shawl before leaning forward as best he could in the cramped space and reaching for the gun he always had holstered on his ankle. Then he shed himself of all of his holsters and kicked them underneath his seat.

You gently folded the material around the four guns, pausing only for half a second to send a pointless silent apology to your mother, before twisting in your seat. You crammed the weaponry and shawl underneath the backseat, tucking it away as far as you could until the only thing visible was a tuft of white fur.

That had to be good enough, because you had finally arrived at the door.

You sat properly in your seat as two varlets opened both the driver’s side door and the passenger’s door, and you and Spencer stepped out of the car. The varlet that had opened your door quickly took his seat behind the wheel and drove off into the darkness.

And then you and Spencer exchanged a glance as you both took in the tremendous home. You could see inside from here—the sprawling marble floors of the entry room, the double staircases that curved around the left and right walls that led up to the open second floor, the crystal chandelier hanging in the center. Music from inside spilled out. You recognized the piece instantly—the second movement of Mozart’s piano concerto no. 20 in D minor, clearly arranged for a chamber music group rather than a whole orchestra. 

Your gut twisted. You took a deep breath through your nose, swallowing thickly, and then strode over to Spencer’s side. Your heels clicked against the cobblestone as you approached him. He held out his left arm for you to take, and you delicately wrapped your right hand underneath his bicep, propping your left hand (with your “engagement” ring on full display) on top.

Then the two of you walked up the four steps that led to the double doors and were stopped by security.

The two guards waved their metal detector wands in front of you, then behind you, before you were given the “okay” to enter.

And so the two of you stepped over the threshold, out of one world and into the next.

The entry hall was already filled with patrons, all dressed to the nines, milling about, swiping horderves and bubbling champagne flutes off of passing silver platters as caterers walked the room. Several art pieces were lined up high along both of the staircases—all contemporary works of varying styles, and each hanging on the wall behind a thick glass covering. Security guards were standing on the top and bottom of the staircase, watching the paintings. If you walked up to the second floor, you knew that you would find the _true_ prizes of the evening—the paintings that sold for tens of _millions_ of dollars by the end of the night. 

This was a silent auction. In years past, patrons would walk by, writing their name and their bid on the paper that hung beside each painting. Now, keeping in time with modern technology, there were QR codes hanging beside each painting. You could see members scanning the codes with their phones, using an app made specifically for this event that everyone had pre downloaded before attending, before typing in their information into the app.

How the times had changed.

And as the two of you walked deeper into the house, underneath the arch of the second floor and into the tremendous living space, you gestured your head to the right and down the hall. “The study is that way—take the first left, then a right, then go up the short flight of stairs. It’ll be the double door on the right at the end of the hallway,” you murmured through your placid smile.

Spencer nodded his understanding.

And towards the back of the living area, right in front of a wall made entirely of glass that reached to the top of the high ceilings, and underneath yet another chandelier, was the chamber music group. There were two grand pianos (as you predicted) adjacent to one another, the curves of each of the bodies of the piano perfectly fitted together. There was only one player at the moment, playing the concerto alongside the rest of the group, which was split to the two sides behind the pianos. They played on a slightly raised podium for a small crowd that had gathered in front of them.

A caterer walked by with a platter of champagne. You swiped two glasses off and handed one to Spencer.

“We’re on the job,” he mumbled, “and I already don’t really drink.”

Then you took a deep sip of the glass in your hand, checking to make sure your lipstick hadn’t left any prints, and then swapped your glass with Spencer’s. “Just hold it. It’s for show,” you replied softly.

For you, it was to soothe your nerves.

You took another sip of the new glass and tugged him back towards the entryway. “Let’s go look at the art,” you said at a normal volume now. You needed to stall until the room was packed, until one of the main events began, in which you would be taking part, as you had always done in your youth.

At least that’s what you were banking on for this operation.

 _That_ was when you needed to come across Victor. Until then, you wanted to minimize contact as much as possible.

And so the two of you made your way up the right staircase. 

You paused at the first painting, stopping just a few steps from the bottom of the stairs, and read the placard:

_Cecily Brown (b. 1969)_

_HARD, FAST AND BEAUTIFUL, 2000_

_Oil on canvas, 100” by 110”_

_Starting Bid: $600,000_

You glanced up at Spencer. “My family used to go to the Gagosian Gallery in the City pretty often when I was a teenager. They had Cecily Brown’s work there in the late 90s. Have you seen her work before?”

He furrowed his brows. “No, I haven’t, actually. I must say, though; I’m drawn to her blend of abstraction and figuration.” He gestured to the painting, eyes roaming the fluid lines that just _barely_ sketched out the figure of a woman. “There’s a very subtle and tasteful eroticism to it—carnal pleasure turned to simple beauty.”

“Great. We’re placing a bid.”

You reached into the small black purse that hung from a gold chain strap at your side and took out your phone as Spencer’s head whipped down to look at you. “We’re _what_?”

“I’ll be outbid as soon as we walk away. It’s fine,” you mumbled.

You scanned the QR code through the app, and more information on the painting popped up on your phone screen. You scrolled down to where the latest bid was listed: _$715,000_.

You typed in a bid of $725,000 before returning your phone back to your purse, and just as you looked back up at Spencer, you heard a female’s voice from behind: “Y/N, is that you?”

You turned around to see an older couple standing at the bottom of the stairs. You recognized them instantly: Dr. Charmaine Russo and Edward Carter.

Dr. Russo was a nationally renowned oncologist and the head of the oncology department at Memorial Sloan Kettering Hospital. Her husband, Edward, managed hedge funds. You never cared to remember or pay attention to the details of what _he_ actually did when you were young, but you had idolized Dr. Russo when you still planned on going into medicine. They were regular attendees at all The Monet Society’s events while you were growing up, and friends with your parents.

You stiffened and forced a smile. “Dr. Russo. Mr. Carter. It’s lovely to see you,” you said, stepping down the few stairs and pulling Spencer along with you. 

“Oh, _please_ , we’re all adults now. It’s Charmaine to _you_ , dear,” she breezed. She pulled away from Edward to lean down and give you a greeting kiss on the cheek. “How are you doing these days?”

The question was innocent enough, but you knew its true meaning. So you just softened your expression into a facade of false gratitude. “Really well. I actually came back this year to show my fiance my roots.” You wanted to gag at your words, at the pretension layered underneath the formality and at the illusion under which you’d spent your entire youth with The Monet Society. You turned your head to Spencer, gesturing towards him. “Charmaine and Edward, this is my fiance Dr. Spencer Reid. We work together in Quantico at the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit. Spencer, this is Dr. Charmaine Russo and Edward Carter.”

Charmaine and Edward held out their hands, and you could feel Spencer’s entire body tense as he reached out to shake each of them. You knew how much he hated shaking hands with strangers and would apologize for putting him in that position when they were gone.

You’d also warn him that those two were just the first of _many_ hands he’d have to shake.

“FBI, huh?” Charmaine mused. “I’d heard you’d left medicine to join it, but I didn’t believe it. You were just such a smart kid. It’s a damn shame.”

You weren’t really sure how she knew that, but gossip tended to travel fast in these circles. And you also knew that she didn’t mean it like _that_ , but the comment still stole the breath from your lungs for a second.

“I—well… I just realized that my skill set was better suited for a different environment.”

And Charmaine let out a slight incredulous laugh. “You sound _just_ like your parents when they left law, and look where _that_ got them.”

Oh.

Wow.

You didn’t remember Charmaine to be such a blatant cunt. 

Then again, not many adults were directly rude to a child who was as smart as, if not smarter than, them. You supposed Charmaine now doubted such things to be true in your adult state.

She continued on as if she didn’t dig her Louboutin heel into your most sensitive wound, turning to Edward as she mused, “Did I _not_ tell them that they’d regret leaving law?”

Edward shrugged, visibly uncomfortable by the topic.

Charmaine turned back to you. “I’m just saying… you could’ve been saving lives instead of… what, chasing bad guys? Waste of potential. _But_ if you ever did want to go back to medicine, I could put in a good word for you at MSK. Just send me an email.” She turned to Edward, giving an indication that the conversation was over.

You gave her the best cordial smile you could despite the fact that you now felt gutted, and took another sip from your champagne glass. Just as you were about to drag Spencer up the stairs and away from them, Spencer cut in: “In what field do you specialize?”

Charmaine glanced back over. “I’m an oncologist, dear.”

“Mmm, and what’s the survival rate for your patients?”

She looked taken aback, now turning her body fully back to face Spencer. “I’m… _excuse me_?”

Spencer continued on. “You know, I actually recognized your name. I’ve read about you in a few articles years ago and have read your own publications and research in the _Journal of Clinical Oncology_ , by pure coincidence.” At her raised brows, he added, “Oh, I have an eidetic memory. I remember everything I read. Everything. And I _do_ remember an interview you did with the _New York Times_ in which you stated that your patients had a survival rate of 99.98 percent, correct?”

Charmaine stared at him, blinking a few times, and then squared her shoulders against him. “That’s correct, yes. I’m excellent at what I do.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt that. But I wouldn’t say that you’re actually saving lives.”

Your grip tightened on Spencer’s arm even as you maintained a polite countenance. What the fuck was he doing?

Charmaine’s eyes widened in shock at his flippancy. “ _Excuse me_?” she hissed.

“I suppose I should restate—you’re not saving lives that _need_ saving. Such a high success rate, especially in oncology, isn’t really an indicator of the merit of a doctor, but rather an indicator of the doctor’s lack of willingness to take risks. You’re only taking patients that you _know_ will survive instead of doing whatever you can to help those in more dire circumstances just so you can maintain an arbitrary measurement of supposed ‘quality.’” He shrugged. “I would argue that those are the acts of a _coward_ rather than a _doctor_.”

Your breath hitched, and your entire body softened as you watched him speak—watched him _defend_ you.

And you didn’t _need_ him to do it. You could have walked away from such an encounter and let the wound gradually stop aching by itself. But it seemed that he was trying to prove a point to you as well; his word choice said as much, evidently drawing upon what you’d said to him regarding your own research just the other night.

And despite the fact that you were in enemy territory, despite the fact that you were under the same roof as the man who’d played a role in the brutal slaughter of your entire family, despite the fact that you were terrified, for one split second, your heart swelled in response to Spencer’s actions.

Charmaine sputtered in offense, her face turning red as she opened her mouth to respond.

But Spencer didn’t let her get the chance, instead turning to look down at you with a softer smile on his face. “Y/N, on the other hand, spends every day prepared to risk her own life for the sake of others, regardless of who the victim is or how likely their survival is. That’s what we do at the BAU. We save lives both in the present and future by solving serial cases and putting our own lives on the line to do so.” 

He looked back at Charmaine, who now clenched her jaw in fury. “Oh, I don’t mean to discredit your work,” he continued. “You _have_ done brilliant research. Your 2005 article on the immunophenotyping of leukemia was very well done. But don’t diminish our work down to ‘chasing bad guys’ when you’re too afraid to even do your own job properly.”

Spencer didn’t wait for a response before he turned to you again. “Now, I _did_ see a lovely abstract painting upstairs that I’d like to take a closer look at. I think it’s an original Gerhard Richter. Shall we?”

You blinked a few times before a slight smile spread across your lips. “That sounds great,” you said. Then you tossed a glance over your shoulder back to Charmaine, who stared agape in your wake, and added, “It was lovely speaking to you again.”

And just before you turned back around, you saw a small smile grace Edward’s face as Charmaine stomped away.

Maybe he wasn’t as boring as you’d previously thought when you were a kid.

Neither you nor Spencer said anything as the two of you walked up the marble stairs to the second floor. It was only when you’d turned the corner, standing by an abstract dreamlike landscape painted by Peter Doig, that you let out a breathy laugh. “That was… that was pretty good, Spencer.”

“Well, she was being ridiculous,” he answered as he looked down at you. “But I do want to apologize. I didn’t actually see a painting by Gerhard Richter. I just needed an excuse.”

And you let out another laugh at the fact that he felt like he needed to apologize for that, and a smile lifted to his face as well. For a split second, you forgot about where you were and what your task was. 

For a split second, you simply stared at one another—two priceless gems surrounded by lesser art.

And then the moment passed, and you both remembered the objective. The nearby security guard eyed the two of you (perhaps you were too close to the Peter Doig original, which had a starting bid of three million dollars), so you gently tugged on his arm to follow you down the hall.

And the two of you let minutes pass by as you walked along the length of the second floor hallway. As you went, you noticed stares from other members you recognized from your youth, and whispers between spouses about your mysterious reappearance.

Everything was going as it was supposed to.

And as you reached the other end of the hallway after your slow meandering, now having finished your glass of champagne and sending it away on another caterer’s platter, you glanced at the watch: _9:47pm_.

You gently tugged on Spencer’s arm, and he looked down at you with a nod.

It was time to run into Victor, who had to have been notified of your presence at the event through the ever running mill of gossip traveling between members. After your interaction with Charmaine, you wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d already been looking for you.

So you and Spencer walked down the left staircase, turned around the banister, and made your way back to the living space. And just as you crossed underneath the second floor hallway balcony, you saw him.

Or _them_ , you should say.

And you froze on the spot, a slight gasp breezing past your lips as your grip on Spencer’s arm tightened yet again.

Victor, Alexander, and Leo all stood before the chamber music group. They were engrossed in conversation with a few women you didn’t recognize.

And then Leo’s eyes drifted for a moment. They landed on you before returning back to the woman standing in front of him, and then he did a double take, his jaw literally _dropping_ in surprise.

Spencer placed his free hand over yours. He must have felt it begin to tremble.

And you managed the best smile you could—the picture of gratitude and joy—while you waved.

Leo, now completely done with whatever previous conversation he had been having, smacked Alexander with the back of his hand. Alexander looked over at him, irritation flashing across his handsome features before they settled back into a cordial countenance.

Leo and Alexander had never really gotten along, even when you were kids. They had different mothers, but neither of them was in their lives. Leo’s mother had left Victor within two years of his birth, and Alexander’s mother (who Victor had once told you was the great love of his life) had died in childbirth.

Alexander had also never had a particularly good relationship with Victor, either. You had always suspected that _that_ was a reason why. Leo had always been the favorite, too.

But when you and Alexander locked eyes from across that room, you felt every molecule of oxygen leave your body. You dug your toes down in your shoes to keep your legs from shaking. Spencer’s hand tightened over yours.

And Alexander just stared, eyes darting between you and Spencer before his brows furrowed deeply.

And then, at last, Victor noticed you as well, and his face lit up in delight.

He politely excused himself and his sons from their conversation before striding over to you—his eyes bright, his arms extended wide.

“Oh, _ma fille_ , _ma fille_ ! I cannot believe you are finally _home_!” he cried as he approached. He moved in to kiss you on both cheeks, and you had to fight the whole body cringe, instead smiling and politely returning the gesture.

When he took a step back, his hands flew to your cheeks, cradling your face between them, and his eyes softened as they scanned your features. “Oh,” he whispered, “you’ve grown up to be so beautiful. You look so much like your mother.”

Grief danced on his face—a hint of that inimitable agony shining through.

Regardless of the validity of that agony, you still had to force the rage that bucked inside you from making its appearance on your own face.

“That’s what everyone has always said,” you answered, smiling as if relishing in nostalgia. 

And then Leo appeared. His face was split into a wide grin as he kissed you on your cheeks and said, “Dad didn’t tell us you were coming this year.”

“I was going to, but then I decided I wanted it to be a surprise,” Victor answered softly. “It’s a wonderful surprise, is it not?”

“Wonderful indeed,” Leo replied. He turned back to you, his eyes flicking to Spencer as he said, “And you brought…?”

You were glad he’d asked. Alexander had just approached as well, and you were glad for the excuse to not have to greet him as you had Leo and Victor.

So you finally turned back to Spencer, smiling tightly as you slipped your left hand out from underneath his—your “engagement” ring on full display now. “Victor, this is my fiance, Dr. Spencer Reid. Spencer, this is Victor, Leonardo, and Alexander Marseille.”

Spencer stuck his hand out to shake theirs, his body tensing in displeasure as he did. He said, “It’s a pleasure to meet you all. I’ve heard so much about you.”

Then Alexander finally spoke, his voice low. Not so much threatening as it was confused—unsure of what to make of the situation. “All good things, I’d hope,” he said. He was staring directly at you.

Your heart rate jacked up, and you felt a cold sweat break out across your back. You couldn’t break his stare, frozen between the past in front of you and the present beside you. And even though you wanted to _hate him_ , there was still a slight fondness and nostalgia that surrounded the better memories the two of you shared.

It had not always been so horrible.

But you despised the fact that you couldn’t hate him wholly.

So you took up your place on Spencer’s arm again, if for no other reason than you felt like you might collapse without him.

And Spencer just looked over to him, smiling. “Oh, only the best, I assure you.” 

Leo looked out behind you at the entry hall. “Ah, Samuel is here, too. He’s always late.” And he strode past you to greet him.

 _Fuck_.

Even Spencer stiffened at that.

And you dared a glance over your shoulder to where Boucher had meandered in. His eyes, just like Leo’s had, brushed over you and Spencer, flickering to one of the art works on the stairs before his eyes widened slightly and returned to you in shock.

You sent him a tight smile, mouthing “ _surprise_.”

Leo and Boucher made their way over to your group, and Boucher said, “Well, this is… unexpected.” By the look he gave you, you weren’t sure if he was talking about your presence, or the fact that Spencer was standing beside you.

Probably a mix of both.

Boucher looked between your left hand and Spencer. “I recognize you,” he said to Spencer. “You’re Dr. Reid, but I don’t think we’ve formally met.”

“No, we haven’t. It’s a pleasure to meet you officially, Director Boucher,” Spencer answered.

“Likewise. And, please, it’s Samuel for tonight.” Then he paused, shaking his head slightly to himself before turning to you. “I’m sorry. Y/N, how long has this been going on?”

“We’ve been together for, what?” You looked to Spencer for fake confirmation to go along with the story you’d conjured for the mission. “Nearly two years, right?”

“Exactly one year, eleven months, and three days, yes. Our two year anniversary will be on the 28th of February.”

Boucher just laughed quietly, incredulously, to himself. “How did I… why didn’t you tell me?” he asked. If you didn’t know any better, you might have thought that Boucher seemed offended that you hadn’t told him.

And you were still pissed at him, so you capitalized on his slight hurt, shrugging as you answered, “You didn’t ask.”

“Oh, well…” His eyes darted to Alexander. “I suppose that’s fair.” He cleared his throat. “Just… while I’m aware that there are no official FBI policies regarding fraternization between agents…” He trailed off, furrowing his brows. “Don’t let this affect your work.”

“Well,” you said, smiling as saccharinely as you could, “it’s a good thing that I start in New York tomorrow.” You couldn’t keep the bite from your tone.

If all went accordingly tonight, though, then perhaps you wouldn’t have to transfer.

Boucher’s brows rose in response.

But before he could respond, Victor cut in: “Oh, _please_ , Samuel. This is a party, not work. You are _suffocating_! Let them enjoy themselves.” He turned back to you, reaching out and plucking up your left hand in both of his. He examined the ring on your finger, and you took great satisfaction in the fact that Alexander couldn’t keep himself from looking, either.

You took even more satisfaction in the fact that he arched one of his brows in question, clearly passing judgement on the ring choice. As if he had better taste.

But Victor was not nearly as critical. His face merely softened as he looked back up at you. “Lovely,” he said. “I’m so happy for you, _ma fille_. For both of you. You are a beautiful couple.” He cupped your hands between his now. “A doctor belongs with a doctor.”

The warmth that rose to your cheeks wasn’t feigned.

Neither was the hurt that flashed across Alexander’s face.

Then Alexander took a deep breath and cleared his throat. “Dad, it’s almost time.”

“Oh, that’s right,” Victor answered, glancing down at the watch on his wrist. He looked back at you, still smiling dreamily. “Alexander still performs at all our events like when you were kids. Do you still play?”

“I do, actually,” you answered. Your heart rate, still racing, somehow sped up. 

The entire operation depended on _this_ moment.

Spencer added, “She plays beautifully. Her rendition of Liszt’s _Un Sospiro_ puts even Claudio Arrau’s interpretation to shame, and one of Arrau’s early mentors, Martin Krause, was literally a pupil of Liszt himself.”

You’d never played that piece in front of him. Frankly, you only even had a vague recollection of playing it when you were younger. You definitely didn’t know it by memory. But he must have liked the piece if he chose it randomly like that.

You made a mental note to reteach it to yourself so you could play it for him after all of this was over.

Victor sighed wistfully. “Yes, she’s always been our little virtuoso. She and Alexander both,” he said, tossing a glance over at his youngest son. 

You and Alexander looked at each other again. You broke the stare almost immediately, turning your gaze down to the ground as you swallowed thickly. 

Oh—” Victor continued as he looked over at Spencer. “—you should have heard them play together. They played the most beautiful duets at all my events. They were the highlight of the night every time.” Then Victor paused, slowly turning back to you. “Would you consider—”

“Dad, that’s ridiculous. You cannot ask that of her,” Alexander cut in. “That’s not… that’s… I already have the piece prepared, and you can’t just—”

“No, actually,” you interrupted, “if you’d like me to, then I’m happy to do it.” You steeled your resolve and finally looked back over at Alexander. “For old time’s sake,” you said to him as tenderly as you could.

A muscle jumped in Alexander’s jaw. “What would we even play? Do you still even know the pieces we—”

A laugh jumped out of your throat. “Alexander, please. How could I ever forget?”

“Okay, then,” he grit out, “what do you want to play?”

You pretended to think, glancing over at the two pianos opposite each other on the slightly raised podium in the living area. You forced a light smile onto your face. “Can you still play Mozart’s sonata in D major for two pianos?”

“Off the cuff, I can only play the first movement, but…” Alexander’s face scrunched up, and you hated the way your heart fluttered in response. For just a moment, his expression was that of his younger self, before all of the terrible things arose—before your great shame, and before he changed into the person that confused every fiber of your being with the paradox he introduced to you.

He continued, “That piece is a logistical nightmare even when well rehearsed. We’ll sound terrible.”

“Oh, well if you don’t think you can do it, then you can pick something else,” you said.

He narrowed his eyes at you, and you knew you’d won. His infamous ego never backed down from a challenge.

You were banking on Victor asking you to play a duet with Alexander and provoking Alexander into going along with your selection. It amazed you that they were still so consistent, despite everything you’d learned about the Marseilles in the past two weeks. 

And if you set the tempo correctly, the piece would take a little under ten minutes to play. That would give you a little under ten minutes to distract your present company, and a little under ten minutes for Spencer to quietly slip away to find the study. 

And at the speed he was able to read, with his unparalleled attention to detail, you knew that if it were there, he’d be able to find it within minutes. He could be back before the piece even ended.

So, though your palms were sweating with anxiety, though half of you wanted to run the other direction when you forced yourself to step away from Spencer and closer to Alexander, you smiled through your turmoil. “So? What piece do you want to play?” you asked him.

He didn’t speak for a few seconds, finally answering, “No, let’s play the sonata. I’m assuming we would play the same parts we did in the past?”

“Yes, and I’ll be setting the tempo.”

Alexander rolled his eyes. “Fine. I’m not sure why I expected any different, but fine.”

You smiled at your small triumph and slowly slid the purse from your shoulder, handing it to Spencer. “Would you mind holding this while I’m playing?” you asked.

“Of course,” he answered. His hand brushed against yours as he took it, and he offered you a slight nod. 

This was the moment.

So you turned your back on Spencer and followed Alexander and Victor to the raised podium, where a larger crowd had begun to form.

Alexander stepped up onto the podium, and then turned and offered his hand to you. Refusing it would be a bad look in front of so many people, so you forced yourself to take it with a quiet “thank you.”

And then you stood beside him as Victor began addressing the crowd. You could see Leo and Boucher towards the back—Boucher looking on fondly while Leo stared skeptically at his brother. When Leo caught you looking at him, however, he sent you an encouraging grin. 

You wished you could have received that without doubting its sincerity, without the knowledge that Leo might have known about what happened that night all those years ago. He’d been the closest thing you’d had to an older brother while growing up. He’d always been so kind to you.

Then again, so had Victor.

How could he have done this? 

How could he look at you, tell you that you looked like _your mother_ with such earnestness, with such genuine _sorrow_ in his eyes, with the knowledge that he’d played a role in her slaughter?

Perhaps you’d just never understand the nature of true evil.

Your thoughts were interrupted by an introductory round of applause, and on legs you barely managed to keep from wobbling, you made your way to the left piano’s bench. The room settled into silence, only interrupted by the _squeaking_ of you and Alexander adjusting your seats.

And when the noise ceased on his end, you tapped out your tempo on the ground with your left foot, the same way you’d always done when you were younger: two measures matching the time signature of the piece. 

So you tapped eight beats to get a feel for the tempo, and then—

Thunderous chords followed by strong trills erupted from the podium, from the two pianos opposite from each other.

And despite the fact that you and Alexander hadn’t played this duet in over fifteen years, despite the fact that _you_ (and you were sure that _he_ as well) could hear the slip ups and mistakes—the difference in dynamics and articulations that were supposed to be seamlessly blended from both pianos—it didn’t seem to matter to the audience.

You weren’t entirely sure it mattered to you, either.

This was one of those pieces you’d never forget, even if you went an eternity without ever touching a piano again. And though you couldn’t play it solo, you hadn’t been able to even entertain the thought of playing it again because of all that it represented. 

It was a joyful celebratory piece, a chase between pianists, that had been ruined for you because much of your own playing history was intertwined with your memories of Alexander.

But now, playing this piece in a home that was simultaneously sentimental and sickening to you, you still found yourself smiling. Genuinely smiling.

You smiled as your fingers danced across the ivory keys, skating up and down the keyboard.

You smiled as Alexander tried to push against the tempo you’d set, as he always did when you were younger, just because he knew it’d piss you off.

You smiled as you turned fifteen years of terror and loneliness and darkness into something happy. Something that meant more to you than anyone in the audience could ever pick up on.

Because at long last, you saw an end to it all. You saw the beginning of your victory.

You’d won.

You’d _finally fucking won_.

So you smiled and poured that infinite relief into the keys in front of you, letting your fingers express all that you could not at the moment. And when you and Alexander finally chased each other into the brisk ending of the piece, you slammed your hands down into the final chords, now unashamedly grinning to yourself.

The final notes rang out in the room before the two of you were met with a round of applause. Whistles.

And you smiled out into the crowd, breathing a laugh to yourself at their ignorance. At Alexander’s ignorance as he sketched an awkward bow to the audience. At Victor’s gentle facade that would soon crumble to reveal the monster he was at his core.

And you stood from the bench, eyes scanning the crowd, searching for the familiar mop of wavy brown hair so you could smile at him, too, but…

But Spencer was still gone.

And the smile vanished from your face, because, even if there was no ledger, even if he couldn’t find it, he was still supposed to be back by now. His orders were to be in and out of the study within five minutes, with or without that ledger.

You stepped down from the podium, barely acknowledging the members praising your performance and giving them little more than a nod of your head as you brushed by them. 

Maybe Spencer stayed longer to look, anyway. The idea that he would bend his orders wasn’t _impossible_. He’d done it before.

So you should go into the study to find him. To help him. 

But then _two_ federal agents would have gone wandering about in the home of a mob boss, and though Victor’s disposition was ordinarily peppy and optimistic (at least the Victor that _you_ knew, before learning all of this), he was smart enough to figure out why _both_ of you were missing.

He would at least check.

You kept walking towards the entry hall. You would go upstairs, pretend to look at art, and form your plan in the time that it would take to walk down one side of the hall. You took a deep breath to try and calm your heart, now racing in panic.

You just needed to think of a reason to go that way, a reason to have— 

“Y/N,” Alexander said from behind.

You turned sharply on your heel to face him. His face was slightly pink with exhilaration, all nervous or discontented tension from earlier completely gone. He was smiling at you, now. Softly. Tenderly.

And though it was the absolute _last thing_ you wanted to do, you forced a wide grin on your face and crossed the distance between you, throwing your arms around his neck while giggling. His arms immediately encircled your waist. And because of the familiarity Alexander provided, you expected it to feel at least somewhat natural.

But a hug had never felt so wrong to you in your life.

But you forced yourself through it, and when you spoke, you cringed at the sound of your own voice—bubbly and high-pitched. “ _That was amazing_!” you breathed into his neck. You pulled away to look up at him. “God, I forgot how great that post-performance feeling is.” You lowered your voice a little. “It’s honestly better than sex.”

Alexander’s ears immediately turned red at your comment. He cleared his throat. “Well, that’s one way to put it,” he laughed. “But for not having played that together in, what? Fifteen, sixteen years? Not bad at all.”

And then you stared into his eyes, still smiling, slowly softening your face into whatever affection you could muster.

His face followed suit—only it wasn’t the facade you were projecting.

And then you feigned modesty, looking down at his arms around you as if you’d just noticed them, and you let out a falsely nervous laugh. “Sorry, sorry, I just got… caught up in it, you know,” you said softly.

“No, don’t apologize,” he murmured back.

Then a silence settled between you two. You would dart your eyes up to his face, smile nostalgically, and then look back down at your feet. Just a _hint_ of that demure, agreeable girl he’d once wanted you to be.

And, evidently, _still_ wanted you to be.

He broke the silence, quietly saying, “Hey, could we… could we talk somewhere?”

You glanced up at him, unsure.

He added, “I just… it’s been so long, and the last time we spoke— _really_ spoke—was…”

 _Wasn’t so much speaking, but more so screaming,_ you wanted to say. But instead, you nodded hesitantly, biting your bottom lip as you stared up at him from beneath your lashes. “I’d like to do that,” you answered. “And I think we should… _talk_ … about some other things, too.” You pitched your voice lower to convey your implications.

He stared at you for a second, confused, and then his eyes widened. “Oh, Y/N, I didn’t… I don’t… that’s not…” He swallowed thickly. “You’re engaged.”

Oh, he didn’t care. He didn’t care about that at all.

You breathed a laugh through your nose. Then you glanced around to ensure that no one was really _looking_ at either of you, and you slid one of your hands up his arm. “So were we, at one point,” you murmured. You leaned in closer to him. “And I’ve missed you, too, you know. When you called on New Year’s… well, I was just so overwhelmed. But before I get married, I’d like to… clear things up with you, you know?” 

He didn’t move. He didn’t speak. You weren’t even sure he was really breathing.

He just stared at you, brows raised, eyes wide.

You had him right where you wanted him.

So you dragged your hand down the length of his arm again and threaded your fingers with his, a devious smirk spreading across your lips. “I know where we can talk,” you whispered.

And you started dragging him away in the direction of Victor’s study.

As you walked past the living area again, you locked eyes with Victor from across the room. He was talking with Leo.

His brows furrowed at the sight of your hand in Alexander’s, but then he just quickly averted his gaze.

He wouldn’t come looking for you. 

And when you arrived at the hallway that held the study, Alexander finally pulled his hand from yours and halted. You were just four feet away from the door.

“Why are we _here_?” he asked.

You didn’t actually have an answer. You were hoping he wouldn’t ask. Your plan was to just… _shove him_ through the door, which definitely lacked grace and sophistication, but with every passing second you grew more and more anxious about Spencer. You didn’t _care_ about grace or sophistication. You had combat training.

And because you knew that Alexander couldn’t stand even the sight of blood, you knew that it was unlikely that he’d ever learned how to properly fight. You knew twenty different ways to knock a man twice your size unconscious. 

Alexander was nothing

And if Spencer was still in the study, you would help him look.

But you had to get through the doors, first, and Alexander was still expecting a response.

So despite the fact that even the mere thought of doing so made bile rise in your throat, you just grabbed the lapels of his jacket, pulled him towards you, and smashed your lips against his.

Any and all questions vanished from his mind. His arms immediately wound around your waist, pulling you closer to him. His hand roamed up your back, brushing against the bare skin.

You shuddered with displeasure, and your entire body screamed at you to get away from him.

But instead, you spun the two of you around, still desperately kissing him, and slowly backed him up.

And you kept walking him backwards until his back hit the door. One of his hands found its way into your hair, his other hand squeezing your waist. You finally let go of his lapels, sliding a hand up his chest. Your other hand slowly trailed down his torso, skitting across his hip, and landing on the door behind him. It took a few seconds of fumbling, but you managed to get a grasp on the doorknob.

And then you turned the knob and flung the door open, and Alexander fell backwards in surprise.

And then you froze.

Because you had found Spencer, but he was kneeling in the center of the room—blood gushing down his face from his nose, a harsh bruise on his right cheekbone marring his beautiful face. He was cradling his left wrist to his chest.

And standing behind Spencer, holding a gun with a silencer to his head, was none other than the Director of the FBI, Samuel Boucher. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh gosh this chapter kicked my ass. it's currently 4:51am and I think I've written half of this within the last like four hours.  
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this chapter! I apologize for any typos. Thank you for reading :)


	29. Dare You See a Soul at White Heat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CONTENT WARNING: MENTION OF PREVIOUS SUICIDE ATTEMPT

You couldn’t move as you stared wide eyed at Boucher.

_What the fuck?_

_What the fuck what the fuck what the fuck wh_ — 

And then, before you could even take a breath, there was a gun pointed at you, too. Your eyes flickered down to Alexander, still lying on the floor, but now with a pistol trained on you. One of his pants legs had been dragged up to reveal a now empty holster on his ankle.

His hands were shaking like, despite carrying a gun, he’d never actually pointed it at someone before. You wouldn’t be surprised if this was his first time doing so, and people who weren’t comfortable with firearms were notoriously trigger happy. 

So you slowly raised your hands into view. No sudden movements. 

“Samuel, what the fuck are you doing?” Alexander asked without taking his eyes off of you. Then, to you, he demanded, “ _What the fuck is going on_?”

“ _Do not_ take your gun off her. Call your father and tell him to come here with Leonardo,” Boucher commanded instead of answering. “ _Now_.”

Alexander didn’t move. He merely stared at you with wide eyes.

“ _Now, Alexander_ ,” Boucher repeated, his deep voice booming through the study. He was panting, and when you took a closer look, you saw that his lip was split open. Then your eyes swept the ground quickly, and you found Spencer’s distress button on the other side of the room,

He must have reached for it whenever the altercation began. And of course Boucher would have known what it was.

But you still had yours embedded in the crown of your watch. You just had to wait for a moment to press it.

Alexander finally tore his eyes from you to look behind him at Boucher. You didn’t dare move; Boucher still had his gun trained at the back of Spencer’s head.

And he saw you looking at Spencer, so he brushed the end of the silencer against Spencer’s hair.

You tried to suppress your sharp inhale.

Spencer squeezed his eyes shut for a second before quickly looking over to you, and then at the door behind you.

He wanted you to leave, to try to run away in the few seconds that Alexander was no longer looking at you.

But if you did that, then you left Spencer at the mercy of Boucher, and you had no idea what that would look like. 

So you shook your head as subtly as you could.

He let his eyes fall shut again.

And Alexander looked back at you, slowly picking himself up off the floor as he realized that you’d used him as an excuse to get over here without suspicion. His eyes flashed with hurt before they narrowed. He wiped his mouth halfheartedly with the back of his hand.

What a child.

While keeping his pistol trained on you, Alexander reached one hand into his pocket for his phone. You stood frozen as he dialed a number and held his phone to his ear.

Within seconds, he was saying, “We need you and Leo in the study. Now.” He didn’t wait for a response before hanging up, putting his phone away, and holding his gun with both hands. His hands were still shaking.

“Y/N, get in the room,” Boucher said.

You didn’t move.

Boucher laughed under his breath and cocked his gun, nudging it against Spencer’s head again. 

“Okay, okay,” you breathed as you slowly walked deeper into the study. 

You stopped when you made it to the edge of the carpet that took up the majority of the floor. Towards the wall to your left was a large mahogany office desk. Behind it and sandwiched between the two tremendous windows was a floor to ceiling bookshelf. The wall across from you held a built in bookshelf, and the wall to your right contained a fireplace with two plush armchairs lying before it. There was a wet bar beside the door, a half finished decanter of whiskey resting on top alongside several bottles of aged spirits and liquors.

Alexander’s gun tracked you as you went.

Then Boucher added, “Get on your knees. Keep your hands in the air.”

You did as told.

“If you so much as _twitch_ , Dr. Reid takes his last breath _in front of you_. Are we clear?”

You glared up at him from your spot on the floor. “Easy, Samuel. We’re both unarmed. You and Alexander have the power here.”

He ignored you. “I know you’re not here alone. Where’s the rest of the BAU?”

“At a secure location in the vicinity,” you answered.

Then he laughed again to himself, and he shook his head. “You know, when I saw you here, for a _split second_ I actually thought you were finally getting past it—”

You bristled at his words, at the dismissal of what your family had to endure. What _you’d_ had to endure.

“—but you just seemed… _too_ well adjusted. And when the doctor disappeared during your little _performance_ , well…” Boucher shook his head. “I’ll just say that undercover work isn’t really your _strong suit_ , is it?”

“Okay, you got me. So what’s your role in this? You work for Victor, too, is that it?”

He blinked, his only indication of surprise. And then he smiled. “Oh, _ma chérie_ , no. Victor works for _me_.”

You felt your heart stop beating in your chest, your blood running cold. In front of you, you could see Spencer swallow thickly. “What?” you whispered. “But—you’re—how—”

“I’m a busy man. I learned to multi-task. It pays well to have friends in high places. To _be_ in high places,” he said. He spoke about his double career—his _corruption_ —so casually, as if describing a part-time job like a teenager would. 

Samuel Boucher: Director of the FBI and mob leader for the Corsican.

It never would have occurred to you. For _limitless reasons_ , it never would have occurred to you. And though your mind swirled with questions, one question rose above the rabble.

You struggled to keep your breathing as you asked in a voice barely louder than a whisper, “So did you kill them?”

And for a brief moment, Boucher’s face was shadowed with something reminiscent of guilt. He answered, “The order was partly mine. The act itself was not.” His face darkened further. “But it was not… it was not supposed to happen like that.”

“We were your friends,” you managed, voice rising in volume even as you tried to force your hysteria down. “And… and Lizzy was _sixteen, you sick fuck!_ ”

“I told you; it _wasn’t supposed to happen like that_ . I’m—” He turned his head away from you, clenching his jaw and squeezing his eyes shut for _one_ second. “She was not supposed to die. I never would have let that happen if I’d known. I would not have let _any of that happen_ like _that_ if I’d known.”

“Then _how_ was it ‘supposed to happen,’ Samuel? _How was it_ —” You cut yourself off with a quiet gasp. 

And then you went still.

And you felt every muscle, every nerve, every _blood vessel_ in your entire body freeze over.

Alexander quietly called your name. Even Boucher furrowed his brows at your sudden shift in demeanor.

But you weren’t focused on either of them. Your mind had zeroed in on precisely one thing.

Whistling. Quiet, faint, and getting louder.

_Alouette, gentille alouette._

_Alouette, je te plumerai…_

And then, still quiet but so close now, you heard Victor say: “Leonardo, please, _enough_ with the _alouette_. You’re giving me a headache.”

And you slowly turned your head to the double doors—still open—and watched wide eyed as Leonardo and Victor came into view. Your breathing quickened, and you felt your entire body begin to shake. 

And the second Victor’s eyes landed on you, his face fell. “Oh,” he whispered, “ _ma fille_ , what have you done?”

But you ignored him, instead staring directly as Leo and saying in a quivering voice, “It was you.”

Leonardo, after taking in the scene, let his eyes fall on you. He blinked a few times as if surprised by your vague accusation, and then the pleasant countenance that always resided on his face dropped entirely into something darker. His entire demeanor changed, and he smiled at you as he said, “Oh, are we done feigning pleasantries?”

And when he spoke, his voice was frigid—so removed from the “older brother” figure you’d once seen him as. The person you were staring at was completely foreign to you. 

You continued, “You… you killed… you _did that_ to…” You couldn’t form a complete sentence. You could hardly form a coherent _thought_. 

You’d once seen Leo gag at the _thought_ of just even taking the garbage out.

How the _fuck_ did he single handedly mutilate and slaughter your _entire family_ ? How the _fuck_ did he do _that_ to Maryanne? To Elena Webber?

After stuttering through several attempts at speech, you managed to whisper, “But you were in Chicago.”

“Have you heard of a plane, Y/N?” he bit back.

Victor tried to cut it again. “Let’s put the guns away. Let’s _talk_.”

But no one paid him any mind, and Alexander kept his gun aimed at you as he looked between Victor, you, and Boucher. “Will someone tell me _what the fuck is going on_ ? _Please_?” he asked, his voice breathy and agitated.

“Oh, just stop, Alexander,” Leo said with a roll of his eyes. He reached his hand into the jacket of his suit, whipping out a handgun of his own and pointing it at you as he cocked it. “I’m done with this.”

Before he could pull the trigger, though, Alexander swore under his breath and finally took his gun off of you, turning to point it at his brother instead. His hands stopped shaking. His stance improved. He pointed his gun at Leo like he’d been trained to do it his entire life. “ _Don’t._ ”

Victor flinched. “Boys, _stop_ ,” he demanded through clenched teeth.

No one paid him any mind.

And you just stared at Leo, your mouth hanging slightly open, your eyes wide, your hands visibly trembling as you kept them in the air.

Leo noticed, and he just smiled at you. There was no warmth in the expression—just malice as he beamed at you from behind the barrel of his gun. “You know, I’ve been meaning to ask. Did you enjoy my presents?” he asked you.

You took one second to process that question. And then you whispered, “The cases.”

And his smile grew.

The cases that you’d picked up on throughout all your years at the FBI. All the ones that you could just _barely argue_ were related. All of the older sisters singled out, separated from the butchering of the rest of their families in some way.

They were all Leo’s doing. They were all killed to _get your attention_.

Leo had wanted you to find him. To _connect_ your family’s murder to him. He wanted you to know who’d done it.

Classic narcissistic behavior.

How had he hidden it so well throughout his life?

“I knew you would be smart enough to string them together. Didn’t think it’d take _this long_ , but I suppose Samuel wasn’t exactly helping me on his end of things. And I’ve wanted to thank _you_ for _your_ present to me. We—” He gestured towards Boucher with his head. “—had been looking for her for quite a while. We weren’t quite sure if she was dead or not. Turns out she was right under Samuel’s nose all along. Isn’t that funny?”

 _Elena_ . You had led him and Boucher _straight_ to Elena Webber when you’d visited her.

You might as well have killed her yourself.

Images from all the cases, images of Maryanne, of Elena, flashed through your mind. _All of those people_. Dead. Indirectly because of you.

Your body went numb. Your mind became a hub of static and fuzz. 

You could only barely hear Alexander mumble under his breath, “You’re _fucked up_.”

Leo spared a glance at his brother, lowering his weapon slightly. “And yet _I_ am still the only reason we’re still in business. _I_ am the reason we haven’t gotten caught. And _I_ am going to finish this so it can _stay that way_.” 

He lifted his gun to you again.

And you just bowed your head, closed your eyes, and waited.

But the shot never came.

Instead, what you heard was an exasperated huff, and Leo sighed, “For fuck’s sake, Alexander. You’re so dramatic.” 

You opened your eyes again to find Alexander now standing between you and Leo.

“You’re not _killing her_ ,” Alexander hissed. 

“Are we still on this? You realize she despises you, right?”

Alexander didn’t move.

Leo sighed again, leaning to the side so he could continue looking at you. He looked between you and Alexander before shaking his head. “Do you want to know the _sole_ reason you’re still breathing right now? The _sole reason_ you didn’t die that night, too?”

“ _Enough_ , _Leonardo_ ,” Alexander ordered through clenched teeth. You’d never heard him speak like that before—equal parts dark and desperate. 

And you didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of telling him that you did. More than anything, you wanted to know why he didn’t kill you too. Why he killed Elizabeth—evidently _against orders_ —but left you to suffer in her and your parents’ absence. 

But something in your face must have conveyed that desperation, because Leo’s lips curled upwards despite Alexander’s command. Then his eyes flitted to Alexander, and he tilted his head in his brother’s direction.

And your body stopped trembling for a second. “What?”

“If I remember correctly,” Leo goaded, “Alexander’s exact words to me the night before… _the event…_ were that if I were to even leave a _scratch_ on _you_ , there’d be ‘hell to pay.’ Now, I’m not too threatened by him, but as dad _loves_ to say…” Leo shrugged. “ _D’autres choses peuvent nous changer, mais nous commençons et finirons comme une famille._ And how could I even _think_ of harming a _hair_ on my beloved baby brother’s _one true love_ with that?”

“Jesus Christ, Leonardo,” Boucher ground out under his breath.

But his words were lost on you, as were the mockery and sarcasm heavily laden in Boucher’s tone. And despite the fact that you had walked into this building under the assumption that Alexander likely knew _now_ the truth of that night, you hadn’t considered that he’d actively known when you were still together.

You should have known. You should have at least _entertained_ the possibility, but…

Maybe you just hadn’t wanted to believe that there was anything left for him to still hurt. To betray.

“Alex,” you breathed. You could see his spine lock up at your voice. “You knew? When… when we were together, you _knew_?”

“I thought you were smarter than that,” Leo prodded.

Alexander took one glance back at you. “I—”

“You… you…” And you were transported out of that room and into a void that slowly dragged you downwards—towards a new level of despair, towards madness, you weren’t sure.

“You _carried_ _me_ out of the cemetery after their funeral, and you knew?” you breathed. “You _cried_ for them, and you knew?”

“Y/N, just… wait, let me—”

“You held me when _I_ cried so hard that I fucking _puked_ . _And you knew?_ ” Your voice was quickly raising in volume as the silence and static that had just previously occupied your mind was overtaken by shrieking.

And you had known rage in all its forms for years. It was an old friend of yours. But you had not known it in its truest form—unfiltered by the hurt and sorrow of the past—until that moment. People often thought of anger as a secondary emotion, a byproduct of other feelings, a mask.

You hadn’t realized they were wrong until it was the only thing you could feel, your body numb to even the physical sensation of the carpet scratching against your knees.

The world itself could have collapsed, and you wouldn’t have noticed.

Were you capable of such a thing, you might have ended the world yourself as you screamed, “You sat with me at the _hospital_ after I tried to _kill myself. And you. FUCKING. KNEW?_ ”

An oppressive silence hung in the air in the wake of your scream. You didn’t care that Spencer’s eyes had widened at your words. And you didn’t notice that Victor was no longer in your line of view.

You were only focused on the fact that the _only thing_ that kept you from death that night was Alexander. And he hadn’t cared enough about Elizabeth to demand her safety, either. And he had gone over _five years_ during your relationship together _lying to you_ _every day_.

And suddenly, every time he’d dismissed your struggling, every time he’d told you to ‘try to move on,' every time he watched you break just a _little more_ with that same haunted gleam in his eye made sense. 

Every single one of them had watched you fall apart. Every single one of them had watched you desperately claw for a _scrap_ of closure. Every single one of them had known this entire time.

And you realized that you truly _had been_ alone, more so than you had ever even realized. That you’d never had someone on your side.

Everything had been a lie. Truly everything.

And somehow, _that_ was your breaking point.

Alexander tried to respond: “I _couldn’t_ —” 

You barked a harsh laugh and cut him off again. “I’m going to kill _all of you_ . Do you _hear me_? I’m—” You slammed your hands down onto the carpet as if you might push yourself off the floor.

But Boucher immediately reached down and grabbed Spencer by the hair, yanking him back against him and positioning his gun at the side of Spencer’s head. “ _Try it_ ,” he dared.

And you snapped your head to look at him and froze. A savage growl of frustration lifted from your throat. 

And before you could try to call his bluff, before you could even take another breath, Spencer finally spoke. “Y/N,” he tried. But he wasn’t looking at you.

He was looking directly behind you.

And then you felt a familiar sharp pain in your neck, immediately followed by the sensation of your muscles going limp, and the room spinning as you collapsed to the floor. You managed to push yourself over onto your back, groaning as the world distorted and swirled, and you were only vaguely aware of Victor now walking past you to Spencer, injecting him with the same substance.

He slumped to the ground with a quiet gasp. Were you more lucid, you might have been more worried, but you couldn’t feel much as you felt the room devour you.

You didn’t need to be told that Victor had injected you both with a high dose of ketamine. You’d never forget this feeling—of slipping into darkness slowly, of being consumed by a swirling world that combined fantasy and reality and left scars on the deepest recesses of your mind. 

You tried to reach your watch, to press your distress button now that Spencer was no longer at the barrel of Boucher’s gun, but your arms wouldn’t listen to you. You couldn’t move.

And so you were launched into the abyss with one last conscious wish to whatever being cursed your wretched existence: to let you live long enough to watch the rest of them die at your hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that this chapter was a lot shorter than they usually are (I hope that's okay!). It was also extremely difficult for me to get through haha, so I'm sorry if this isn't the best chapter. The next one will probably be a bit shorter too just for like pacing reasons.
> 
> Also, full disclaimer: I didn't notice this earlier, but now that I'm writing this all out, I'm realizing that this might get pretty dark (depending on your definition) in terms of things in y/n's backstory that will be unveiled (especially as they pertain to Alexander and why the confirmation that he knew about everything when they were together set her off so much) and like some events and decisions made by the characters. Just a heads up. I'll leave content warnings for things like discussions/mentions of suicide in any form at the beginning of any chapter that it's brought up.
> 
> Thank you for reading! :)


	30. As for the Lost We Grapple

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CONTENT WARNING: DEPICTIONS OF TORTURE AND MURDER; IMPLIED/REFERENCED SUICIDE ATTEMPT

_You were sitting on a beach, your knees pulled up to your chin, your toes buried underneath the sand. Gulls cried in the distance, just audible over the crashing of waves in front of you, and when you looked up at the sky, you saw that the sun had just barely risen over the horizon. It would be low tide for several more hours._

_This was the best time to sit on the beach. You had the warmth from the early sun shining on you, the quiet air of the morning, and the soft spray of droplets carried to you on an ocean’s breeze. The world remained undisturbed, and every once in a while in the distance, you heard a dog barking while out with a run with their owner._

_You closed your eyes and laid back against the sand. It was still chilly from the night, but warming quickly._

_The beach home was your favorite place on the planet. It was the only place where you ever even got a_ bit _of rest—from the tutors, the practicing, the studying. For a few hours at least, you could simply exist as a human._

_At least until Mom or Dad made a comment about your idleness. Then you usually jumped back into whatever project you were in the midst of._

_But it was fine. You loved your work. You loved to play the piano. You loved the pride that shone in your parents’ eyes every time you accomplished something new. You_ lived _for that pride._

_It was just nice sometimes to pretend that you were a normal sixteen-year-old, too._

_And tonight, Alex was going to take you out for dinner._

_You had thought that he’d just wanted to hang out like usual, but Lizzy was convinced it was a date._

_“You guys don’t go ‘out to dinner,’” she had told you when you mentioned it off-hand to her the previous night. “If that’s what he said, then it’s a date. You’re going on a date with Alex tomorrow night.”_

_“Look, if that’s the case, then maybe I should call him back and tell him I’m not interested,” you had answered as you reached for the landline on your nightstand._

_Lizzy was sitting on your bed across from you, and she gasped as she launched herself forward and slapped her hand over the phone. “Wha—why?” she cried._

_You had stared at her, quirking an eyebrow. “Uh, Mom and Dad made it_ pretty clear _that I’m not allowed to date_ anyone _until I’m out of college, and med school, and_ then _done with residency training. And, besides, we’ve been friends for our entire lives. It’d be weird.”_

 _And Lizzy, ever the drama queen, had groaned as she rolled onto her back on your bed, digging her palms into her eyes. “For God’s sake—_ they’re _the reason that you’re the most_ emotionally constipated _person on the frickin’ planet.”_

_“I’m not… ‘emotionally constipated.’ I don’t even know what that means. I’m just… I’m being practical. So are they.”_

_She had slammed her arms back onto your mattress, and you jolted from where you sat. Lizzy stared up at you with narrowed eyes and a wisdom that far exceeded her fourteen years of life. Sometimes it was hard to believe that she was younger than you. “Y/N, you have admitted to me_ to my face _that you have a crush on Alex before.”_

 _You had winced in embarrassment. “Yeah,_ once _when I was_ thirteen _. How do you even remember that?”_

 _“I remember a lot of things. And I will get down on my knees and_ beg you _to just… do something for yourself_ for once _. Be a teenager_ for once _. And if you hate it, then that’s fine, but be brave and just_ try _, alright?”_

_You had just stared at her in response. And the two of you sat there in silence, neither one of you backing down from the other, until you sighed, “Fine. But it’s not going anywhere.”_

_And Lizzy had just grinned at you, not believing a word out of your mouth._

_She had always been your courage—your real inspiration to go out and achieve great things._

_And there, on the beach, you smiled to yourself as heat rose to your cheeks. Maybe tonight wouldn’t be so bad._

_So you closed your eyes and chuckled under your breath, letting the spray on the ocean breeze wash over your face and the sound of splashing whisk you away._

_And when you opened your eyes, you were standing by the fountain outside Lincoln Center._

_You blinked a few times._

_How did you get here?_

_“Elizabeth, act your age. Please,” your mom reprimanded._

_You looked to your left at the fountain and saw Lizzy walking along the edge of the fountain. Her black kitten heels were dangling from the straps off her finger, and she dipped her foot into the water. From the center of the fountain, the circle of jets sprayed streams of water into the air, and she laughed to herself._

_You scrunched your face up. “You are quite literally_ asking _to get a disease right now. You know some studies have shown that most public_ water fountains _have more germs and bacteria on them than public toilets? And those are_ supposed _to get cleaned. That—” You pointed to the famous fountain she was walking along. “—is probably teeming with…_ giardia _, or something else.”_

 _Lizzy rolled her eyes at you as she hopped down, still not wearing her shoes. “You take_ one semester _of med school and think you’re already a doctor.”_

_“I mean, you know that I’m really only there as a formality. I could probably just teach myself in the entire curricu—”_

_“Oops, you caught me. I don’t actually care.” The smile she flashed you meant that she was just teasing, so you laughed and darted over to her, shoving her playfully. She shoved you back, and you stumbled over your feet in your own heels._

_“Girls, please,” your mom sighed. Then she noticed that Lizzy was still barefoot, and her eyes narrowed. “And Elizabeth, put your shoes on,_ now _. That’s disgusting.”_

_Lizzy rolled her eyes, but did as told._

_She had just slipped on her second heel when your dad called, “The car’s over there.”_

_Your usual driver had called in sick for the past few days. Tonight was the only time your family had really needed him, so your father had asked Victor to send a recommendation his way._

_A black Cadillac Escalade was sitting idly by the street._

_Your father took the passenger’s seat while you and your mother sat in the middle. Lizzy climbed into the back._

_Then the driver, in a low raspy voice that caught you off-guard, mentioned that there were water bottles in each of the cupholders for all of you. You had been parched, so you’d quickly uncapped yours and taken a long drink._

_And then you’d fallen asleep._

_And you’d awoken to screaming. Male screaming._

_Somewhere in the back of your mind, you recognized the voice as your father’s, but it was so twisted and visceral that you told yourself it couldn’t be his. He usually spoke with such a soft cadence. That tortured screaming_ couldn’t _be his._

_And then there was the humming._

Alouette, gentille alouette.

Alouette, je te plumerai… 

_It went on a loop._

_Your head was lolled to your right shoulder. There was a tight pressure around your wrists and ankles, like something was binding them together._

_You blinked through the haze._

_Where were you?_

_Wherever you were, it was freezing. You’d been stripped of your winter coat and left in the red dress you’d worn to the performance._

_Then you heard whispering._

_Your name._

_Over, and over, and over._

_You managed to loll your head to the left. You saw Lizzy sitting just a few feet away. Her wrists were duct taped together, and so were her ankles. She was shaking, and the makeup she’d worn earlier that evening had smudged all around her face._

_She looked like a raccoon._

_You smiled._

_She called your name again, and you finally noticed that her voice was quivering. And when you inhaled deeply, you were met with the scents of blood and urine. You glanced down at the dirty concrete floor beneath her and found a wide puddle of liquid._

_You furrowed your brows, just barely understanding her words as she begged, “You need to snap out of it. Please. Please. Please. I need you to snap out of it. Y/N, please. I need you.”_

_“What?” you managed to whisper. Your tongue felt like lead in your mouth._

_Another scream of agony to your right. You slowly started turning your head, and then you heard Lizzy desperately whispering, “No, no, no, no, don’t look over there. Look at me. Please. Look at me.”_

_You did as told. You always did as you were told._

_“What’s happening?” you asked._

_“I… I don’t know. I don’t know where we are. I—” Another scream from your right, followed by a squelching sound, and then another shriek. Lizzy’s eyes darted behind you, to where she told you_ not _to look, and her eyes bulged. She gagged and tried to suppress it by keeping her lips pressed tight together. “Oh my god,” she whispered. “Oh my god oh my god oh my god we’re gonna die oh my god.”_

_Die?_

_Why would she say that?_

_And then you started to feel more of your body. Feeling returned to your fingers, and then your toes, then your hands and feet. You were able to push past some of that fog into mental clarity._

_You finally realized your surroundings—a smaller room within a larger warehouse, you assumed. You and Elizabeth were together slumped against the wall, and when you looked past her, you saw a closed metal door._

_You heard another scream, and then a choked cry for mercy._

_And you finally turned your head to the right fully, despite the fact that Lizzy hissed at you not to again._

_And you didn’t have the vocabulary to describe the emotion that ran through your body._

_There was a man dressed entirely in black with his back towards you. On a metal table in front of him was…_

_Your dad?_

_It vaguely sounded like him, but you couldn’t actually make out any distinguishing features. All you could see was flesh and blood and everything bent at odd angles._

_The man moved, grabbing your father’s arm and twisting. Something cracked. Your father bellowed in agony. If you were at full mental capacity, you would have been able to name the exact bones or tendons or muscles afflicted by the movement, but…_

_But…_

_But…_

_You let out a shuddering breath as your situation finally dawned on you, and you slowly turned your head back around to Lizzy. “Oh,” you managed to whisper._

_She let out a quiet whimper. She nodded, but her entire head trembled with the rest of her body. “Y/N,” she began, flinching as another scream echoed through the room, “He already killed Mom. I need you to use that brain of yours. Please. Please. I need you to figure out how to get us out of this. Please.”_

_And you tried._

_Honest to god, you tried._

_But when Lizzy’s eyes widened—when a shadow fell over the two of you, and you looked up to find the man in black towering over you, a syringe in his hand—you realized that you couldn’t think of anything._

_You could barely even_ think _._

_You felt a sharp pinch in your neck, and then you fell asleep once more._

_And the next time you woke up, you heard screams of a different kind, and the same humming from before._

Alouette, gentille alouette.

Alouette, je te plumerai…

_You turned your head to your left and found…_

_Nothing._

_This time, though, the screams were sharper. More coherent. It wasn’t a garbled mess. They were higher pitched. Younger._

_And so, so, so afraid and in pain._

_And then you heard pleading. Begging._

_So you slowly turned your head to the right, and you locked eyes with Lizzy. Her hair was matted with blood, and you could see her legs, her knees, her ankles, and all of her toes bent at odd unnatural angles. She wasn’t wearing any clothes, either._

_“Y/N,” she wailed, “Y/N, please help. PLEASE!”_

_But you couldn’t feel your muscles again. You couldn’t move. You could only stare._

_And then a ringtone from a cell phone rang out through the space, barely audible over Lizzy’s sobbing and screaming. It was a generic tone, probably preset from the factory._

_The man wearing black slid a phone out of his back pocket. The cell phone was large and blocky. He cleared his throat and held it up to his ear._

_And through that dense fog that had returned to your mind, you couldn’t understand a word he was saying. It didn’t sound like English, but you couldn’t figure out what language it was. The man sounded agitated though. Frustrated._

_All the while Lizzy just whispered your name through her sobs, like it was the only thing that tethered her to this world._

_The man shouted something into the phone and hung up. He sighed, then he said something to Lizzy. You still couldn’t understand him even though it sounded like English. Every sound felt like it was filtering into your ears through a wall of cotton._

_And Lizzy’s eyes bulged. And she started crying harder._

_And harder._

_And even harder as the man reached into his back pocket and pulled out a pocket knife. He lifted her like she weighed nothing, holding her up by her hair and he dragged her off the table. She shrieked._

_And then he turned around and noticed you were awake again, staring at him._

_The man lifted the blade to Lizzy’s throat and sliced it across from ear to ear, severing both carotid arteries._

_And you were close enough that the spurts of blood spraying from the wound as she garbled through her last breaths landed on you. Coated you. Doused you._

_And you still couldn’t move. You still couldn’t really_ feel _much. So when the man approached you after dropping Lizzy to the ground like she was a worthless doll and picking up his syringe again, you just stared at him as he injected you again._

_Until the world swirled into that dizzying mess again, you continued staring at the man._

_Staring, and staring, and staring…_

_***_

Your eyes snapped open as you took a gulping breath of air. The dimly lit world before you swayed before you, and you saw a figure coming into view. You were sitting on the ground, your arms bound behind you and your back propped against a wooden support beam of some kind. You were sweating, but your mouth had never felt dryer.

Maybe you were dying. You felt like it. You weren’t sure you could breathe.

You’d never remembered that much before. You’d never remembered it so vividly.

You felt sick.

The figure crouched down next to you, and you felt something press against your lips. A cool liquid immediately spilled into your mouth, and you yanked your head away from the object to spit the liquid out.

You gagged as you did. Were there anything in your stomach, you might have thrown up. Instead, stomach acid burned the lining of your throat.

There was a soft sigh from beside you. “You need to drink water before I put you back under. Please.”

You recognized that voice. That was Alexander.

You lolled your head in his direction, unable to even engage your neck muscles enough to support your own head. Through several labored breaths, you managed to hiss, “ _Don’t touch me_.”

“ _Plea—_ ”

“I hate you. I hate you, I hate you, I hate you,” you cut him off. You weren’t entirely sure your words were intelligible, but the overall message seemed to come across. The childish mantra was the only thing your mind could settle on. “I hate you.”

Another sigh. Then, so softly you nearly missed it, he said, “Yeah, I know. I’m sorry.”

You heard the soft clatter of a glass being placed on the floor, and then you felt that familiar sharp pain in your neck again.

You managed to whisper “I hate you” one last time before you fell back into the abyss.

***

_You opened your eyes again to a bright light shining in your face. There was shouting in the distance, and a woman in a thick vest crouching in front of you. The pressure around your wrists and ankles had vanished._

_The woman was saying something to you. You couldn’t understand._

_You were trying to figure out why your skin was wet, why your hair felt plastered to your face, why when your fingers twitched, they felt stuck together by a thick substance._

_The woman said something again. You managed to scrunch your brows in question._

_“Can you stand?” she repeated. Her voice sounded far away, like the final echo before a sound was lost into the void._

_And you didn’t quite understand her question. Of course you could stand. How could you have made it eighteen years without knowing how to stand?_

_So you smiled at how funny this woman was and nodded._

_You slowly pushed yourself up off the floor despite the fact that your legs felt like jelly, and you leaned heavily on the wall. Then you frowned._

_You weren’t convinced you could actually walk anymore._

_Without having to say anything, the woman lifted your arm around her shoulders and wrapped her right arm around your torso. She practically dragged you out of that room herself. Your feet were of little use to you._

_And then you were at the end of a long hallway. There was a small room at the end of the hallway that was bustling with activity. You saw flashes of photographs being taken and people wearing hazmat suits streaming in and out of the room. A few of them brushed past you and the woman and into the room you were just in._

_You wondered what they were looking at._

_But she turned down a different hallway to the right, taking you out of the warehouse and outside to a world of flashing siren lights._

_But the first thing you really noticed was that it was snowing. The ground was coated in a layer of fresh powder. And you smiled._

_You loved snow._

_But then your head fell forward, suddenly exhausted by the effort it took to hold itself up, and the smile vanished from your face. You were leaving a trail in the snow beneath your feet—a trail of scarlet red. Droplets fell from your hair and onto the ground, staining it._

_What was on you?_

_You ended up on a stretcher, being lifted into an ambulance._

_And then you saw sandy brown hair and blue eyes._

_Sandy brown hair. Blue eyes._

_How was Victor here?_

_Why did he look at you like that—horrified and stunned with a twinge of terror?_

_You didn’t like the way he was looking at you, so you closed your eyes and let the next wave take you._

_And when you opened them, you were standing on a grassy hill at a cemetery. A large crowd of people surrounded you despite the fact that it was freezing out. It was sunny._

_You thought it should have been raining._

_You looked down at your attire through the thick sunglasses you wore: a black overcoat and dress. To your left, you heard someone clearing their throat. You turned your head to the sound._

_Alex was standing beside you. His cheeks were damp, and he reached a hand up to roughly rub at his eyes. Then he noticed you staring and turned his head to look at you. He pressed his lips together miserably before lifting his arm and wrapping it around your shoulders, tucking you into his side in a comforting gesture._

_Up at the front, by three tombstones, Samuel was speaking as your father’s longest friend. His face was strained with grief. Victor and Leo stood close to him off to the side._

_You were supposed to deliver the eulogy, but you hadn’t said anything since you were told what had happened. You hadn’t cried, either._

_You didn’t really feel much of anything. The doctor had told Victor that you would be in shock for a bit, that you would eventually have_ some _reaction, but until then…_

_Until then they left you alone for the most part. All of them except for Alex, that is. He hadn’t left you by yourself for anything more than using the restroom. Half of you was annoyed at his hovering. The other half desperately needed him there._

_You weren’t sure what you would do if you were really left alone with yourself._

_The proceedings carried on in a blur. You didn’t remember any of the faces that said hushed condolences to you. You didn’t respond to most of them. You just let them walk away, knowing you’d likely never see any of them ever again. Truthfully, if you_ did _see them, you probably wouldn’t recognize them._

_And when the funeral was over, and when three caskets that carried the mutilated bodies of your family were lowered into the frozen ground, it finally hit you that you’d never see any of them again._

_That their final moments had been spent in agony while you sat uselessly by the side._

_That you were left alone._

_A shuddering gasp lifted from your chest, and suddenly, you couldn’t stand anymore. Your knees buckled underneath you and slammed against the grass below you._

_Alexander was immediately crouched by your side. “Y/N?” he asked. His hand brushed over your shoulder. “Y/N? Oh, fuck. Y/N, what’s wrong?”_

_You tried to take another breath, but it felt like your lungs were being pressed together. There wasn’t enough oxygen in the world to help you as you felt the world fade in and out of reality. You’d never felt like this before._

_You didn’t know what to do._

_So all you could do was let out another gasp as your body curved inwards. Maybe if you squeezed your eyes shut, you’d be able to get your bearings, but when you did…_

_All you saw were fragments—a man in black, the spray of blood, the sound of a familiar children’s song, and screaming. Constant screaming._

_In the background, you were vaguely aware of Alex saying, “Get_ away _from her, Leo.”_

_You’d never heard him use that tone of voice before. You’d never heard him so threatening. But you couldn’t spare the mental energy to figure out why he seemed so angry at his brother, so defensive of you._

_You were too busy trying to remember how to breathe._

_You must have sat there for over half an hour, gasping until your breaths felt like glass shards running down your throat. The winter air didn’t help._

_But when you were finally able to feel the grass under your knees, when your entire body didn’t tremble so hard it was a wonder the earth didn’t move with you, Alex squeezed your shoulder._

_“Hey,” he murmured, “it’s cold. We’ll get sick if we stay out here.”_

_You from a few days ago would have told him that the cold itself didn’t make you sick, but rather just made you more susceptible to viruses that thrived in colder climates._

_But you had a feeling that_ that _girl would never be seen again. So you just nodded. You were the only two left in the cemetery._

_Alex nudged you to stand up with him, but you couldn’t. You weren’t sure your legs could even move._

_So for the first time in days, you finally spoke. You whispered, “I don’t think I can stand.”_

_Alex stared at you for a few seconds. Then, he said, “Okay. Okay, you don’t have to. I got you.”_

_And then he slid his arms around you—one around your back, the other beneath your legs—and with a soft grunt, he lifted you up with him. He slowly walked down the hill with you, holding you tightly against him._

_You angled your face into his chest and shut your eyes again._

_And when you opened them, you were met with blinding hospital lights above you and a sterile scent that burned its way into your nose. You could feel the slight pinch of an IV needle in your left arm. A steady beeping drew your attention to the left, where you saw your vitals being tracked on a screen, recorded from the pulse oximeter on your left index finger. Your heart rate was abnormally high, but everything else seemed okay._

_You blinked hard against the lights, against the headache that was erupting behind your eyes, and you noticed Samuel sitting in a chair against the wall. He was reading a book. You couldn’t tell which one._

_But he noticed you staring at him, and he inhaled sharply. He laid the book in his lap, braced his elbows on his knees while leaning forward, and dragged his hands down his face. “Jesus Christ, Y/N,” he said. “What the fuck were you doing?”_

_You didn’t answer. Instead, you whispered, “Where am I?”_

_“New York Presbyterian.”_

_“Time and day?”_

_He sighed. “It’s 2am. December 15th, 2005.” Then he paused before adding, “I just got off the phone with Alexander. He’s almost here.”_

_Shit._

_You shut your eyes tightly at the sound of that._

_And when you opened them, Samuel had been replaced with Alex. His forearms were braced against his knees despite the fact that one of his legs was rapidly bouncing up and down. His head was hung low. Even from where you lied, you could see his suit jacket laid over the back of the chair beside him along with his tie. His dress shirt had been unbuttoned at the top and was rumpled significantly, and his hair was a mess, like he’d run his hands through his several times._

_Then he looked up and noticed you were awake, and he shot to his feet._

_And then the two of you stared at each other. His eyes were rimmed with red, and he had dark circles. He looked exhausted._

_That made two of you._

_He broke the silence by whispering, “Why did you do that?”_

_You tried to swallow, but your mouth was completely dry, and your throat burned. You had an answer, a reason, but you couldn’t bring yourself to say it directly. It hurt too much to say it. Instead, you rasped, “I can’t… I can’t keep doing this.”_

_He scrunched his brows together. “What are you talking about? You… you said you were fine. We’re fine.”_

_“Not after last week. I’m done. I’m done with this, Alex.”_

_And his face shadowed with realization, with a grief of his own. He clenched his jaw and looked away from you, running a hand through his hair._

_“It’s my fault,” you whispered, your face beginning to crumple. “It’s my fault.”_

_Alex glanced back at you, looking like he might protest half-heartedly, but he didn’t say anything. You knew he agreed with you. Blamed you._

_He hadn’t said it, but you knew he did._

_Instead of speaking, he just slowly made his way to your bedside, perching on the edge and leaning down to wrap his arms around you. You could feel his arms trembling ever so slightly._

_You wrapped your free arm around him as tears streamed from your eyes. You whispered, “I’m sorry.”_

_And he whispered back, “So am I.”_

_You didn’t understand what he could possibly be sorry for._

_Then he quietly said, “I love you.”_

_And you just nodded. You didn’t say it back. You couldn’t remember the last time that you had. You couldn’t even remember the last time that you had said those words_ in general _without them being cheapened by this gaping hole inside you, one that grew deeper and darker with every passing day._

_With every passing loss._

_So instead, you repeated, “I’m sorry.”_

_And the phrase echoed in your mind:_

_I’m sorry._

_I’m sorry._

_I’m sorry…_

***

You came to with a quiet groan, opening your eyes to find that familiar swirling world. Your head was pounding, and your mouth was so dry that you couldn’t even swallow. You didn’t feel _as_ disoriented as you had the first time you woke up, though. Maybe he had given you a lower dose than Victor had.

Immediately, Alexander was at your side again. You felt his hand on your neck and the soft clatter of metal and glass, and you gasped, “Alex, Alex, please wait. Just give me a second. Please. Please.”

He stilled, quietly answering, “Okay.”

And you just leaned your head back against the support beam you were bound to, breathing deeply to try and refocus your mind. Everything felt fragmented; even simple thoughts felt like they were a hair’s breadth out of reach. You squeezed your eyes shut, then opened them, then squeezed them shut again, trying to shake away the disorientation.

Then you opened them again and decided that the world was as steady as it was ever going to be, finally turning your head to the left slightly to look at Alexander, who was crouched down in front of you. He peered at your face with concern.

You scoffed and looked around the room instead, trying to take it in and think through the fog in your mind. You appeared to be in a basement of some kind—concrete floors underneath you, and a small vent window on the wall opposite of you. The room was fairly small, with a single door along the wall just a few feet to your right, and another on the wall several more feet to your left. There was a small cove in the center of the left wall that had a metal sink. The faucet was leaking.

And then you looked straight ahead of you, and you felt your heart stop in your chest.

Spencer was asleep—slumped against a wooden support beam as well—with his left hand resting in his lap, and his right hand twisted behind him and tied to the beam. His ankles were bound together with two zip ties. The bruise on his cheek had deepened in color, and dried blood was crusted beneath his nose. His hair was limp against his head, and his skin was pale with a sheen of sweat over it. But you zeroed in on the hand in his lap: his wrist was swollen and purple, with a bump that indicated that his wrist was broken poking up. His hand was bent at an odd angle because of it.

And through the haze that made your mind feel like it was melting into your skull, you had only one coherent thought: you needed to splint his wrist to avoid further damage.

But the haze in your mind had made you forget that you were bound to your own support beam, and you tugged at your restraints. When you were unable to move, you pulled harder, and the zip tie that bound your wrists together dug into your skin.

“Stop. You’ll hurt yourself,” Alexander said.

You jutted your chin in Spencer’s direction. “I need to…” You trailed off to take a deep breath. Even speaking was exhausting. “His wrist. It’s broken. I need… I need to fix it.”

Alexander looked between you and Spencer, sighing to himself as he said, “I can’t let you go.”

You turned your head to him again, your head dipping momentarily and the room turning with it. You blinked hard against the blur. “I can’t even feel my legs,” you managed to say. “I’m not… I can’t… I can’t go anywhere. Please. He’s hurt.”

Somewhere in the back of your mind, rationality whispered that it likely wouldn’t matter. That you weren’t even sure either of you would live to see the sun rise. That you should focus on figuring out where you were and thinking of an escape plan. But those thoughts made your head spin and ache.

So you ignored them.

One problem at a time until you could think coherently.

And Alexander just stared at you.

You whispered again, “Please, Alex.”

After several moments of silence, Alexander dragged his hands down his face. He glanced at the door, and then at his watch, and then finally relented: “Fuck. Fine. Fine. Just… do it quickly.”

He pulled a switchblade from his pocket and moved behind you, and you felt a sharp tug as he freed you. Your hands dropped to the floor. Your arms should have ached from however long you’d spent in the position, but you couldn’t really feel anything in your limbs.

And then there was a gun pointed at you again. 

Alexander moved a few feet away, now seated on a wooden chair that was in the middle of the room, and held his pistol in your direction. His hands weren’t shaking anymore, but his face was still tight with anxiety.

You stared at him.

“I don’t have a choice, Y/N,” he answered quietly.

And it was then that you noticed the bruise on his brow bone, extending down just low enough to force his left eyelid to droop from the swelling, and his split puffy lip. There were faint purple marks circling his throat. You narrowed your eyes at him.

He must have realized what you were looking at specifically, because he tore his gaze from you and instead looked down at the floor. “Can you just…” He gestured at Spencer with his free hand. “Quickly. Please.”

You turned your gaze to Spencer again and lurched your body forward. Everything felt wrong and limp, and your arms immediately buckled under you as soon as you managed to get on your hands and knees. You only narrowly avoided smashing your nose into the concrete floor.

And Alexander just sat in the chair, kept his gun pointed at you, and watched.

Were you not still drugged out of your mind, you might have found the situation humiliating, especially in the expensive scarlet gown you still wore. 

But for Spencer, you would have crawled through fire. You would have crawled over tacks and rusty nails, through hurricanes and monsoons, through the end of the world itself.

So for him, regardless of how pathetic you looked, you could certainly crawl this short distance to try and lessen what little pain you could.

Just before whatever Alexander was waiting for. Before however this night decided to end.

You could at least do that.

And as you moved your hands underneath your body, seemingly to try and push yourself up, you reached for the watch and pushed the distress button. You didn’t know where you were, or how far from the team you were, but at least they knew you were still alive.

Maybe you could wait this out.

So you pushed yourself up again with a quiet groan, squeezing your eyes shut yet again at how the walls seemed to turn, and dragged yourself across to where Spencer was. You were out of breath, inhaling deeply to try and calm your breathing and your racing heart. But you’d made it.

You gently picked up his wrist, letting your fingers ghost around the area where his bone was protruding, and you closed your eyes again. Everything you’d ever learned in school—every fact you’d ever memorized—was floating around a void in your mind. But the haze was slowly, every so slowly, clearing.

It was a simple, closed distal radius fracture. It could have been worse.

But it was still a good thing that he was knocked out. It probably hurt like hell.

And though you theoretically had the knowledge to do so, in your state, you didn’t want to try realigning the bone.

You looked up at Alexander and said, “I need…” You took a deep breath. “I need a stick, and I need cloth.”

He stared at you. “Where the fuck am I going to get that?” 

You just blinked at him.

He tossed his free hand up in the air in resignation before standing up. Alexander stared at you for a few beats, as if trying to decide if you were _really_ much of a threat or a flight risk, and then slowly backed up, heading towards one of the doors. He kept his pistol on you.

He opened the door, still facing you, and then quickly turned to look inside. It must have been a closet or some kind. Then, he said, “There’s a dust brush in here. Will that work?”

It would have to. You nodded, and he slid it across the floor to you. You said, “Can you…” and you motioned towards the skirt of your dress. “Can you cut three strips?”

He hesitated. He looked at his watch, then glanced over at the door, and then finally sighed. “Yeah, sure, fine.”

He placed his gun on his chair, far away from you, before approaching you. He didn’t look at you as he cut into the skirt of your dress and did as asked. Then he just handed the three strips to you and quickly retook his place on his chair, pointing his gun at you.

You might have rolled your eyes were you totally cognizant of his behavior.

You laid the dust brush along Spencer’s wrist and gently tied the three strips to keep it in place—one around his palm, another just above the injury, and the third just below the injury. It was good enough to keep his wrist immobile until he could get proper treatment.

 _If_ he could get proper treatment. _If_ the BAU got here before… 

Before what?

Alexander was clearly waiting for something. You weren’t sure you wanted to know what it was.

So you just reached up to cup your hand to the side of Spencer’s face, dragging your thumb across his cheek, before you turned to drag yourself back to your pillar. Even if you had the capability for escape, you wouldn’t do so while Spencer was still vulnerable.

Alexander quickly secured your wrists back to their original place and then returned to his vigil on his chair.

There was an open bag beside his chair that held several vials and sterile syringe packets. You waited for him to reach for them again, but he didn’t.

So you just stared at him.

And he stared back.

Maybe he was as desperate for someone to talk to as you were to stay lucid.

And if he was talking, then he likely wouldn’t put you back under. The longer you stayed awake, the most you felt yourself coming back into your own body. Maybe you could stall long enough to think of a plan.

So you asked, “What happened to _you_?” You were referencing the injuries to himself.

Alexander ran a hand through his hair. “Leo and I got into it after…” He gestured towards you and Spencer.

“Did you win?”

“Does it look like I won?”

You noted the bitterness in his tone and tried to shrug with your restraints. “Since when… when do you even… _fight_?”

Alexander scoffed. “It comes with the job,” he answered.

And the two of you settled into silence again.

And you thought back to what you’d seen in your dream—what you’d remembered. His younger voice echoed in your head: _So am I_.

At the time, you didn’t understand what he was sorry for. An apology from Alexander was hard to come by back then, even when he knew he was in the wrong. He was too stubborn, too arrogant, to ever really acknowledge his own faults.

But you couldn’t stop yourself from quietly asking, “Did you really know?”

He looked back up at you. “What?”

“When… when we were together. Did you _really_ know?”

He nodded slowly.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” you whispered. “How could you… how could you watch me _decay_ and _not tell me_?”

He didn’t answer for several moments, but when he did, his voice was soft. “If I’d told you,” he began, “then you would’ve had two options: join us, or…” He pressed his lips together.

You got the message. Join, or die.

And you wouldn’t have joined them.

He continued, “And I didn’t want you in any part of this. _I_ didn’t want any part of this, but…” He shrugged. “I don’t have a choice in the matter. So all I could do was keep you separate from this. Keep you… I don’t know. Safe. Away from Leo.” 

He must have noticed your entire body tense, because he shook his head to himself, and his face darkened. “It wasn’t supposed to go down like that,” he whispered. “Leo’s… Leo’s always been…”

He failed to find an adequate word to describe his brother, and you no longer thought “monster” was strong enough to truly encapsulate the evil in him.

And though you weren’t sure you wanted to know, you couldn’t stop yourself from whispering, “How was it supposed to happen?”

You had to know. Even if you didn’t want to.

Alexander cleared his throat. “It was just supposed to be your parents,” he answered quietly. “Samuel… didn’t want to do this— _any_ of this. He loved you all. Your dad was his closest friend, but… but he had to protect the family. And Leo wasn’t even supposed to even _touch_ you or Lizzy, but…” Pure unadulterated rage flickered across his face. He went silent.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, you registered Alexander’s use of “family,” like he was actually related to Boucher. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you felt grief. You felt anger. You felt sorrow. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you screamed. 

But they were all far away from you. And you weren’t convinced that the drugs were entirely to blame for your numbness.

Alexander quietly added, “I’m sorry, Y/N. I’m so, so sorry. For everything.”

You had the feeling that he was apologizing for more than just on his family’s behalf.

And maybe it was the expression he wore—so _genuine_ despite the circumstances—and maybe it was because you’d never heard him apologize directly for _anything_ before, but you sighed.

“I’m sorry, too,” you whispered, “that you have to be a part of this. I wish you could be free of them.”

And you meant it. Even after everything, you meant it.

Alexander gave you a tight, joyless smile. “Thanks.”

And then, just because your mind echoed with the memory, you added, “And I’m also sorry for… for…”

Even after all these years, you couldn’t say it.

But you didn’t have to. Alexander understood immediately, and his face flashed with grief. Another silence settled between you, and he sighed heavily before giving you a small, sad smile. “You shouldn’t be sorry for anything. It wasn’t your fault. I shouldn’t have made you feel like it was.”

And despite your conflicting feelings about him, despite the fact that half of you loathed him, you also hadn’t realized how badly you needed to hear him say that.

“It wasn’t your fault,” he repeated, this time with more conviction. “I should have… I should have noticed you weren’t doing well. Even before… before it happened.” Then, quietly, he added, “But I think about it every day. What might’ve been.”

“What might’ve been,” you echoed.

Then he nodded his head in Spencer’s direction. “But… I am glad that you’ve found someone who can be what I couldn’t. I really mean that.”

There was a tightness to his voice that indicated that a future was unlikely, through whatever Boucher had planned for the two of you. But rather than press on, rather than _correct him_ and clarify that you and Spencer weren’t actually engaged, you just pressed your lips together and nodded.

And for just a moment, the two of you shared a moment of peace, of resolution.

And then the door opened, and Victor walked in.

Both you and Alexander turned to look at him. Alexander shot to his feet. “Dad—”

But Victor was staring at you. “Why is she awake?” he asked, his voice frantic.

Alexander didn’t have an answer. 

Victor strode into the room. “I give you _one job_ , Alexander. _One_ . You can’t even do _that_.” He reached into the bag beside Alexander’s chair and took out a vial and a syringe.

Your eyes widened as he approached you. “Wait, Victor, I know you’re working _for_ Boucher. We can help you out of this. I don’t… just… _please_ don’t.”

And for a second, he hesitated.

“ _Please_ ,” you whispered again. “I know you’re different from him. I know you’re—”

Then, as if he couldn’t stand to listen to you any longer, he blurted, “ _Ma fille_ , the idea to kill your parents was mine. Samuel merely approved the order.”

And your heart stopped. 

And all you could muster was a quiet, “Oh.”

Victor lined the syringe up with your neck. “I’m sorry, _ma fille_ , but I have to protect my family.”

And as he plunged the needle into your neck, you couldn’t help but recall what he’d said to you at the hospital on the night of the murder: _I will always be your family, too. Always,_ ma fille _._

You processed one thought before falling completely back into the abyss: that you wished every new unveiled lie would stop hurting more than the last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's about 4:30am, and I've just finished this chapter haha. I just wanted to get it out asap considering the last cliffhanger!
> 
> As always, thank you for reading :)


	31. Who Never Lost, Are Unprepared

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CONTENT WARNING: THEMES OF ABUSE, DRUG ADDICTION, AND SUICIDAL IDEATION

_It had been three months since the hospital, and in those past three months, you had resigned from your position at the lab, taken down your PhD from its place in your office and shoved it in a box in the closet, and decided that you would spend the rest of your life atrophying. This meant that you were either staring into nothing for the entire day, or rereading the same passage from John Fowles’_ The French Lieutenant’s Woman _:_

"You do not even think of your own past as quite real; you dress it up, you gild it or blacken it, censor it, tinker with it… fictionalize it, in a word, and put it away on a shelf - your book, your romanced autobiography. We are all in flight from the real reality. That is a basic definition of Homo sapiens."

"We are all in flight from the real reality _."_

_You certainly had been, at least._

_You just didn’t see much of a point anymore._

_You were just so tired._

_You’d spent the past five years keeping yourself so busy that you’d barely had time to think, pretending like you could keep living your life as normal while routinely making yourself stay awake for over forty-eight hours at a time so you could keep the demons at bay. It used to be easier than it was now. After the hospital, Alex had found your hoard of stimulants. He’d threatened to send you to rehab, but you couldn’t even look at them anymore without sobbing._

_The week before the hospital—the first visit—had shown you how they’d destroyed you in both body and mind._

_It had been your fault. Because of them, it had been your fault._

_It had been your fault._

_It was your fault._

_That story you’d never tell—you would never tell because you couldn’t bear to think of yourself like that. To acknowledge that you had done that._

_But your bed had now become a warzone for you despite the fact that Alex would hold you close to him every single time you’d wake up screaming, or sobbing, or even completely numb._

_Every time, he’d look at you the exact same frozen expression—a mix of pity and discomfort and something you couldn’t name. It was like he no longer saw you as a whole person anymore._

_You knew that something had broken within you, but you resented him for thinking it all the same._

_You grew to hate sharing a bed with him, or with anyone who might see you at your weakest. You hated lying there when he woke up to go to work, and you hated the look on his face when he returned to find you in the exact same position. You’d taken to passing out in your office on the couch whenever your body would finally give out._

_And he didn’t like that, either. He didn’t like having an eye on you every second he was home._

_But you didn’t particularly care. Maybe if you stopped caring about everything, maybe if you just allowed yourself to finally rot on the outside like you had internally for the past five years, you’d finally fade away into nothing._

_There was a certain irony to it—of once being a wunderkind, a “genius,” and now just wasting away._

_If you still had a sense of humor, you might have laughed at the thought._

_But that day you’d gotten the energy to just sort through bills that had been piling up. You didn’t usually deal with your finances or bills. Alex typically did, and if he needed you to sign anything, you’d just do it without second thought._

_But Alex had been gone for the past few days—off with Victor in the Hamptons doing god knows what—and had just returned home. You could tell he’d had a rough time. Every time he went, he came back a little bit… hollow._

_So you decided you could do this_ one thing _to take off his plate, if for no other reason than giving yourself respite and distraction from yourself._

_Sometimes you’d ask him if he was alright, and he’d plaster on that fake smile you were all too familiar with yourself and say he was fine. You never pressed on, just like he never really asked you how you were doing beyond the superficial. It made him uncomfortable._

_That was a fun game you two had played these past few years. Pretending. Lying._

_But up until the hospital, you’d been playing your part as the successful, intelligent, and bright young woman you were. You were a handsome couple together. You looked good on his arm._

_Now, though, you weren’t doing much pretending anymore, but you also hadn’t said anything to him about your own emotional state. He was your fiance, not your therapist. You paid someone else to listen to you fall apart._

_And evidently, he paid too._

_You didn’t notice it at first, but when you took a second glance at his bills, you noticed that he’d paid your therapist 150,000 dollars at the beginning of the year. From his own account._

_And after the hospital, Alex had made you start calling her daily for sessions rather than your weekly ones. So you were fairly on top of your monthly payments to her. Alex was the one who mailed the checks, but you were aware of how much you paid._

_Confused, you picked up your cell phone and called her to inquire about the payment._

_And when the conversation was over, when you’d hung up after firing her and threatening a lawsuit, you began shaking in your desk chair—not with terror like you’d become accustomed to, but with rage._

_You snatched up the document that detailed Alex’s payment, storming out of your office and into the dining room where he’d been sitting._

_You found him asleep in his chair. A bottle of Nolet’s Reserve gin was open on the table, and his glass was half empty. Even in sleep, he looked exhausted. What looked like a few droplets of blood speckled on the collar of his shirt. He must have cut himself while shaving._

_You didn’t care._

_You slammed the paper down onto the dining room table, and he jolted awake, shooting to his feet and scanning the room rapidly as if in search of danger. When his eyes settled on you, he huffed out a breath._

_But before he could ask you what the fuck you were doing, you hissed, “You’ve been_ bribing my fucking therapist _?”_

_He froze._

_And then his eyes dipped down to the paper you had pinned under your hand on the table. “You looked at my mail?”_

_“I was paying bills. Now, answer ‘yes’ or ‘no,’ have you been_ bribing _my therapist?”_

_His hesitation told you everything._

_You scoffed a laugh. “I want to see your laptop. I want to see you delete_ every single recording _of our sessions.”_

_He didn’t answer fast enough for you._

_You turned on your heel and strode out of the dining room, heading straight for his office, but he darted in front of you just as you reached the door and blocked your entrance with his body. “Y/N, wait—”_

_“Get out of my way.”_

_“Not until we talk.” His voice was strained. You could see him losing his patience. He’d had a shitty day; his patience was likely thin to begin with._

_And the dark part of you was glad for it. You were glad to just feel_ something _that wasn’t numbness or fear. You wanted to fight with him. At least then, you two were talking about something real instead of pretending to be content._

 _“Fine,” you bit, “explain to me why you’ve been violating my privacy. Please. I’d_ love _to fucking hear it.”_

 _“I did it for your own good,” he said, his voice rising with yours. And when you let out a bitter, humorless laugh, his eyes narrowed. “You tried to fucking_ kill yourself _. And you_ would have _if Samuel hadn’t—” He cut himself off and squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, as if he couldn’t even entertain that possibility. He rubbed his eyes with his forefinger and thumb. “I think I’m entitled to_ worry about you _, to take precautions, when you’re exhibiting concerning behavior.”_

 _You laughed again at his words, taking a step forward so that you both stood toe-to-toe. “You’ve been doing this for_ three fucking years _.”_

 _“Because you don’t_ talk to me _!” he yelled. “You’ve_ never _talked to me about any of it!”_

 _“Because you don’t want me to! Every single time I tried, you told me I needed to find a way to move on, and left it at that. How_ the fuck _am I supposed to move on from that? I WATCHED THEM DIE!” you screamed. Against your will, tears began welling in your eyes as five years of repressed emotion came tumbling out of your mouth. “I’ve tried for_ so long _to be the girlfriend, the fiance, you’ve wanted me to be. I’ve tried to be what I was supposed to be before all of this, and I_ can’t. Do. It _._ Anymore. _I have been_ dying _for five fucking years, and all you can ever tell me is to try and get over it. You never showed me you cared, not really, not until I couldn’t be your little fucking trophy anymore!”_

_“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he answered, dragging a hand down his face. “I’m not doing this right now. I’m not apologizing for being concerned. I was not going to lose you before I had the chance to have you. To have a future with you.”_

_“I am not a prize to be ‘had’!”_

_This time, he laughed. His voice echoed through the hallway as he hissed back, “Yes. You. Are.” He jabbed a finger at your sternum, and you took a staggering step back. “Maybe you_ were _more than that, but right now, that’s_ all _you are. You are nothing more than your last name and your fucking inheritance.” He laughed again, shaking his head as he took another step towards you._

_You took another step back. And then another. Until your back was pressed against the opposite wall of the hallway, and Alexander was leaning down into your face._

_“You have no idea, Y/N. You have no idea how good you have it—how_ free _you are,” he said through clenched teeth. “You could do anything you fucking want. And_ you _made the choice to piss all of it away so you can fucking wallow._ You _made the choice to start using fucking stimulants like a fucking college student._ You _made the choice to try and fucking kill yourself, like a fucking_ coward _. Now, I’m_ sorry _that you thought that I didn’t care enough to listen to you, but I will_ not _apologize for trying to encourage you to live your fucking life.”_

 _You put your hands on his shoulders and pushed him away from you with all the strength you could muster. He took two steps back. “You’re_ disgusting _,” you hissed. You hated the way your voice broke, the way his words echoed in your mind._

You’re nothing more than your last name and your fucking inheritance.

You’re nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

_But when you tried to brush past him, he grabbed your wrist and twisted your arm back, squeezing hard enough that you had to bite down a wince._

_And then you glared up at him._

_And he glared down at you with a violence in his eyes that you’d only ever seen before when he looked at Leo. Their relationship had deteriorated rapidly in the past five years. He wouldn’t tell you why, but the rage that so clearly shone in his face now was only ever previously directed at Leo._

_And the sick part of you liked that. A sick part of you wanted him to hurt you—_ actually _hurt you—just so it could detract from the storm that raged inside you. So you quietly hissed, “Do it. Fucking. Do. It.”_

_And for a split second, he looked like he considered it. He’d become so much more volatile in these past few years in little ways. Perhaps this would be the culmination of that._

_But then he just dropped your wrist. The imprint of his hand throbbed in his wake. He took a step back, ran his hands down his face again, and then turned and walked into his office, slamming the door shut and locking it._

_You heard something crash to the floor, like he’d thrown something, or knocked something over in his anger._

_And you stood in the hallway alone, tears still streaming down your face, your breath coming in shallow spurts. You staggered a step back against the wall and slid down it, closing your eyes as his words continued to echo in your mind._

_He was right, wasn’t he?_

_After leaving your lab, after leaving all your research behind, after decaying this much, you really were nothing more than a last name and your inheritance._

_And after the stimulants, after what they’d done to you, maybe you didn’t even deserve to waste away like you’d planned. Maybe you deserved to suffer alone._

_Maybe that was your penance—to forever be cast out at sea, floating on a canoe in the middle of a hurricane._

_At least no one could hurt you or leave you if you were alone. At least you could live with that ever growing pit inside you without being bothered. At least you could be miserable in peace._

_You deserved to be miserable._

_That night, Alexander didn’t leave his office, and you left a note ending your relationship with him and your engagement ring on his nightstand in your bedroom. Then you packed a duffle bag of clothing and toiletries and walked out of your apartment in the middle of the night._

_At that point, you didn’t really love him anymore. Not as you once had. You weren’t sure you’d ever be capable of such a thing._

_But you still thought that you left a piece of your heart in that apartment, regardless of how much your relationship had deteriorated, how toxic it had become._

_So you went to a hotel, planning on staying there until you found an apartment you could rent, and someone you could hire to gather your things from the apartment. You refused to go to the blue house on the ocean—your beach home—not when it would be but a hollow husk of the warm place it had once been. You didn’t deserve to be there without them._

_And next time you’d spoken to Alexander directly had been on New Year’s at Rossi’s, nearly ten years later._

_And, now, you were watching your younger self sit on a hotel bed, knees drawn to her chest, sobbing her eyes out._

_And your heart broke for her: twenty-three-years-old, truly and completely alone._

_You couldn’t watch this. You couldn’t be back in this moment in your life._

_So you closed your eyes._

_And when you opened them, you were in a void that knew neither silence nor sound, light nor dark, joy nor sadness._

_And then something rang through the eternal darkness: screaming._

_And your heart began racing. You knew that screaming now._

_“Lizzy,” you whispered to yourself._

_Another cry rang out in the space, echoing in the nothingness. This time, it was a cry for help. It was your name._

_You took a shuddering breath and took a step forward. “Lizzy?” you called again. Then, louder, “Lizzy, where are you?”_

_No coherent response. Just another shriek of pain._

_You began running in the void, but her voice echoed all around you. You couldn’t find her. You still couldn’t help her, even as you called her name, begging her to tell you where she was._

_But she just cried somewhere in the void._

_So, now, with tears streaming down your face again, you just kept calling for her and running._

_And running._

_And running…_

_***_

This time, when you woke up, you woke into a panic. You gasped for breath as your gut riled, and your head swirled. You couldn’t hear anything but Lizzy screaming for you, begging you to save her. And you still couldn’t do anything.

You were still just as useless as that eighteen-year-old girl who had yet to fully realize that fate was her enemy.

And you couldn’t breathe.

You couldn’t think.

You couldn’t even open your eyes.

All you could do was drown in yourself, in the chaos. You tried to lift your knees up to bury your face in them, but your muscles wouldn’t listen to you. All the street names you recited to try and ground yourself eluded you in this state. You couldn’t remember ever feeling anything other than terror.

All you could do was sob and hope for something to finally end you.

You decided that _this_ was death. _This_ was hell.

But then, breaking through the discordant noises, was something familiar. It cut through the shrieks that ricocheted through your mind. It was a thread of the past that led you to something peaceful rather than tumultuous. And you clung to that as much as you could. It pulled you from your madness.

It took awhile for the sound to fully form in your head, for you to figure out how you knew it and why it stuck out in your mind, for you to sift through the fog and chaos to place a name to the tune. 

And by the time you realized what it was, you could breathe well enough to not feel like you were suffocating.

Chopin’s Nocturne opus 9 no. 2 in E flat.

But… it was wrong. The tune and tempo were consistent and accurate, but it was horribly out of key.

So when you could finally feel the concrete beneath you, the bite of the zip tie on your wrist, and the ache in your shoulders from having been in the position for so long—when you finally felt like you somewhat inhabited your body again—you cracked open an eyelid to find the source.

And you found Spencer staring at you. As soon as you locked eyes, he stopped humming. “Are you okay?” he whispered.

You tried to swallow, but your mouth was completely dry. “No. Are you?” Your voice was hoarse.

He shook his head. His face was deathly pale, and strained with pain. Then he looked down at his wrist. “Do you know why—”

“Alexander let me go long enough the second time I woke up to splint your wrist. He had a gun on me the entire time, but I was able to—” You gave him a knowing look to indicate that you’d managed to press the distress button, and then you paused to take a deep breath and to blink away the blurriness that had crept up on you. The drugs were still taking their toll on you. But you glanced around the room.

The two of you were alone, and if you were both awake, you had been for a while.

That seemed like a bad, _bad_ sign.

“Thank you,” he said quietly.

You didn’t respond.

You were too busy wondering if you actually were going to die there.

And when you looked back at Spencer, you knew that his expression meant he was thinking the same thing. If the BAU couldn’t get here in time, if you couldn’t figure out a way to— 

Who were you kidding?

You weren’t getting out of that room.

You weren’t sure you ever really left the first one.

And now, someone else you cared about was likely going to die because of you.

And the seed of hope you’d tucked away in your heart extinguished entirely.

So you looked down at your lap, tears welling in your eyes again, and whispered, “I’m so sorry, Spencer.”

He didn’t answer immediately. After a few moments, he quietly asked, “What?”

“I’m… I got us into this. I never should have tried to… I should have listened to Boucher when…” You sighed as fresh tears started rolling down your cheeks. Your breath hitched. “I wish you never met me. I should have just stayed in ViCAP. You wouldn’t be here if I’d just…”

 _Gotten over it_ was the unspoken end of the sentence.

You didn’t know what else to say, so you just softly repeated, “I’m so sorry.”

He was silent again. Then he said, “No.”

You lifted your head and stared at him.

He continued, “We’ve gotten this far, and you’re giving up?”

“Spencer, it’s over. Unless the BAU finds us in time, then—”

“Stop,” he cut you off. “ _You_ of all people don’t _give up_. I won’t let you.” At your defeated expression, his face softened. “Use your brain. What can you tell me about the room? What can you tell me about where we are?”

“Spencer—”

“ _Do it_.” His voice was tight and strained with pain. He must have been awake for some time. The ketamine must be wearing off, and he could likely feel his wrist again.

So you sighed heavily, leaning your head back against the wooden pillar and squeezing your eyes shut. Your head was starting to ache, and despite there being nothing in your stomach, you felt like you might puke. You took a deep breath and opened your eyes again.

You blinked at where you were looking towards the ceiling, and then you turned your gaze back on Spencer. “The wood on the ceiling is rotting.”

“So?”

“We’re close to a body of water. The humidity during warmer weather leaves lingering moisture in the wood, and it rots,” you said.

“Where do you think we are?”

“We have to still be somewhere on Long Island.”

“Why?”

Your eyes fluttered shut for a moment. You thought about the size of the syringe they’d use, how much ketamine could fit into it. You’d experienced vivid terrors and memories while under its influence, so it must have been a higher dose than what would typically be administered for pain relief and sedation. That would be the only reason you’d experienced its hallucinatory effects. 

The effects of a normal dose of ketamine injected once could last around thirty minutes given how quickly it got metabolized by the liver. The first dose had seemingly been the largest given how disoriented you’d been upon waking up—more so than the second or third time—and how horrific your thoughts had become. But even still, it couldn’t have lasted longer than two hours.

So you said, “We were already here when I first woke up. The effects of a single dose of ketamine wouldn’t last long enough for us to leave Long Island and be transported completely before waking up.”

He gave you a pained smile. “How long do you think it’s been since you—” He nodded his head downwards. _Since you pressed the distress button_ , was the silent end of that sentence.

You blew out a heavy breath. “Forty-five minutes, maybe?”

“Then if the signal got out, they have to be, what? Twenty minutes away?” Spencer asked “We can make it twenty more minutes. We have to.” And then, in a softer voice, he added, “I still have to—”

The door to your right opened, and Alexander walked back in. He had a fresh bruise on his jaw and a silencer attached to his handgun now. His expression was equal parts numb and grim. 

And when he saw that you were awake, he closed his eyes. “Shit,” he whispered to himself. Then he looked between you and Spencer before his eyes finally landed to rest on you again. “I didn’t want you to be awake for this.”

There was an apology in his tone.

And then you watched as he slowly raised his gun to Spencer. His hand was shaking again. His eyes were cast down at Spencer’s chest, like he couldn’t look at his face for what he was about to do.

And as Spencer’s expression fizzled into shocked neutrality, as he stared directly at Alexander with a blank face with eyebrows drawn slightly together, you felt your heart stop before it began racing. Your blood roared in your ears as your eyes widened.

_No._

_No no no no—not again._

You couldn’t do this again. You couldn’t watch someone else you cared about die. You couldn’t.

And your mind began racing, desperate to latch onto any bit of information, _anything_ you knew about Alexander that you could use. You shuffled through every childhood memory, every fact you knew about him and his family, and then— 

“Alex, don’t,” you whispered. Your voice was trembling, and your body had gone cold. “Please. You can’t.”

He hesitated, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment. “Close your eyes.” 

You couldn’t tell if he was speaking to you or Spencer, or both.

But his hesitation told you enough; he didn’t want to do it. Meaning—he could be talked out of it.

You had to fight to keep your breathing under control enough that you could actually speak as you continued, “No, you _can’t_. You owe me, Alex. You can’t.”

He didn’t lower his weapon, but he briefly looked over at you. “What are you talking about?”

You took a deep shaky breath. “When you were sixteen, you were in the hospital with pneumonia for a week and a half, right before your midterms.”

Brief recognition flashed across his features, and he dragged his free hand down his face. “Y/N—”

You cut him off: “Your school was strict about assignments and exams, and you were falling behind. You were going to fail your midterms. I went to your school and picked up all of your things. I got notes from your classmates. I _made you_ study guides. And I sat with you in that hospital for the entire time and fell behind on _my own_ lessons so that I could help you catch up and study. My parents were _so angry_ at me, but I didn’t care. Remember? And you told me that you owed me, and I said that I’d hold you to it.” You paused to take another breath. Your heart beat was still roaring in your ears. “You used to ask me all the time what I wanted you to do for me, and I told you I was saving it for when I needed it. I never cashed it in. I need that favor now. You owe me. _Don’t. Do. It_.”

His eyes shut again, and you saw his adam’s apple bob in his throat. “You can’t be serious. We were kids.”

You continued your desperate ramble. “You know, at the end of that week, when you got discharged from the hospital, I went home to Lizzy, and I told her that I had the biggest crush on you. Did you know that?” Your voice had begun to shake so badly that you were surprised you were even intelligible. “And then… and then three years later, you asked me to dinner, and I fell in love with you. It was something out of a stupid, cheesey movie, you know?” 

You didn’t notice that tears had begun streaming down your cheeks again. “And I’m so sorry,” you said, your voice cracking, “that we fell apart like that. I’m _so sorry_ that… that _that_ happened—” 

His face scrunched briefly with grief. But he didn’t move. He was still listening to you.

So you continued, “And I’m so, so, _so fucking_ _sorry_ that I left you to be stuck with them alone. I’m _sorry_ that I didn’t know, and I’m _sorry_ that I wasn’t strong enough, or… or smart enough to figure it out myself and _help you_ when we were together. But, Alex, I can help you now. I _can_. _Both of us_ can help you get out. You just have to help us first.”

His gun stayed pointed at Spencer, but his eyes were still closed. A muscle jumped in his jaw.

“Please,” you added, your voice descending into a husk whisper. “You’re not them. You don’t have to be. I know you think you don’t have a choice, but you do. You have a choice _right now_ . And I know that the sweet boy that I fell in love with at sixteen-years-old is still in there. Please, Alex. _Please._ Don’t do it.”

The room went silent. You weren’t sure Spencer was breathing as he stared down the barrel of Alexander’s gun. Your muscles ached from shaking so hard.

And then Alexander whispered, “Samuel is the director of the whole fucking FBI. He’s your boss. How can you help me?”

Perhaps hope wasn’t lost after all.

“If you help us get out of here, you can testify,” you answered. “You get us proof he’s corrupt, you swear to help the FBI bring down the mob and its affiliates, then Samuel goes to maximum security prison, and you get into Witness Protection. You can be free. You can do whatever you want.”

The hand that held his gun started trembling again.

You continued slowly, “You just have to help us first.”

Alexander didn’t respond for a few moments, but then his eyes opened. His hand stilled. He looked at you, and he still held his gun in Spencer’s direction. “One condition,” he said quietly. “Dad and Leo walk. You don’t touch them.”

“I…” You couldn’t promise that. Even if you wanted to, you couldn’t. And law aside, the idea of letting either of them go, of _letting them live_ , made your body grow warm with rage. Even letting Boucher rot in maximum security didn’t seem like a grand enough punishment. 

“I cannot guarantee that,” you answered.

Alexander cocked his gun.

“ _Wait_ ,” you blurted. You closed your eyes, letting out a groan of frustration.

You sent a silent apology to Lizzy. Your mom. Your dad. To Maryanne, and Elena, and the three other families that endured torture at Leo’s hands. You apologized to the countless families that he’d slaughtered just to get your attention, and to all the girls that had been stolen and trafficked under Victor and Samuel’s command.

You sent an apology to your eighteen-year-old self, whose life had been stolen from her at the hands of this family.

Through clenched teeth, you said, “If you can convince them to testify against Samuel, we can try to get them a deal.”

Alexander thought that over for a second. “Swear it,” he said.

You scoffed. “I swear.”

And then his hand finally dropped.

And you saw Spencer shut his eyes and take a deep breath.

Alexander shoved his gun into the back of his waistband and ran both his hands down his face. “ _Fuck, okay_ ,” he whispered. Then he looked back over at you again and said, “None of your bullshit. You do _exactly_ as I say, are we clear?”

“Crystal,” you ground out.

“Samuel left an hour ago, but Dad and Leo are in the study on the main floor. We’re in the basement. We have to walk past it to get out of the house. I’ll go first. Neither of you _make a sound_ when we leave this room, got it?”

You and Spencer nodded. 

And Alexander huffed out a breath before quickly moving behind your wooden pillar. Your heart was racing as he took out his switchblade and cut the zip tie binding your wrists behind you. 

You winced as you asked, “Where are we?”

He came around the front and held his hand out for you. You took it. “Fire Island. We’re in one of Dad’s safe houses,” he answered before turning to Spencer. He cut the ties on Spencer’s ankles and added over his shoulders to you, “Take your heels off. They’ll make too much noise.”

You did as instructed, and Alexander moved behind Spencer to cut him free from his own bindings. 

Spencer stood with a quiet groan, and he rolled his shoulders back to try and stretch them. Alexander turned his back on the two of you, quietly opening the door and peeking his head out.

And while you waited, you reached out and grabbed Spencer’s good hand with yours, squeezing slightly. He squeezed back before you dropped it.

Alexander closed the door and took a deep breath. He turned back to both of you. “We’re going to go left, up the staircase to the main floor. Walk along the edges of the stairs so they won’t creek. When we get to the main floor, we have to turn left, and then take a right into the main entry hallway. Dad’s study is the only room on the left side of that hallway. _Do not. Make. Any noise_.”

You nodded again, and Alexander took another breath and opened the door. He slid out on silent feet. You pushed Spencer ahead of you and then took up the rear.

You both followed his instructions up the stairs, walking only along the edges and at a painfully slow pace. Your heart was hammering in your chest.

And then you arrived on the main floor. It was a small house, nothing like the grandiosity around which Victor typically surrounded himself. Alexander motioned for you to follow him _exactly_ where he stepped to avoid the likelihood of creaking wood.

And the three of you slowly made your way to the main entry hallway. There was one large double door on the left wall, and two normal doors on the right. Straight ahead was the front door.

There were flashing lights—red and blue—streaming in through the door window. The BAU had finally gotten here. 

Alexander stopped dead in his tracks, his eyes going wide. But Spencer made an encouraging gesture, and Alexander nodded and continued on.

So you continued to follow Alexander down the hallway, but…

But you paused outside the study.

You could hear voices filtering out of them—an argument. Victor and Leo were fighting. Leo was saying to leave the bodies in the basement. Victor refused.

They thought you were both dead.

In the back of your mind, you were vaguely aware of Alexander waving his arms at you, mouthing for you to move.

But you paid him no mind.

You weren’t entirely sure what had come over you; the sensation was foreign. You were calm—scarily so—and you felt out of control of your own body.

You simply had one, singular focus.

So you looked back over at Alexander, waving an apology, before slowly creeping over to him. He turned his back to you again, and…

You swiped his gun from its place tucked into the waistband of his dress pants and shoved him away from you with your free arm. The world around you slowed as you turned and dashed back to the double doors. 

You yanked them open.

Victor and Leo both turned towards the door with wide eyes. They were standing behind a wooden desk. Behind them was a wide window with the blinds completely shut. Empty built-in bookshelves lined the side walls.

And you lifted Alexander’s pistol and aimed it at Leo, pulling the trigger without a moment’s hesitation just as Leo reached for his own weapon.

But Victor shoved his son out of the way, and the bullet went straight into his head. There was no exit.

He dropped to the ground immediately. 

You felt nothing.

Leo stumbled into the wall, his weapon flying out of his hand from the impact and clattering onto the floor. 

And then you were tackled down, your own gun dropping from your hands. In your peripheral vision, you saw Spencer dash for Leo’s discarded gun just as Leo did. You might have been able to pay more attention had Alexander not been on top of you.

His hands were wrapped around your throat immediately, squeezing. “ _You swore you’d leave them!_ ” he bellowed.

And despite the situation, despite Leo and Spencer’s brawl in the background, despite the fact that Alexander was crushing your windpipe, you smiled. “ _I lied,_ ” you choked out.

And then you moved one of your feet over his and slammed your hips up to try and throw him off. But Alexander was not so easily dissuaded or moved. He doubled down on you, squeezing tighter around your throat.

Your vision faded in and out, but you still felt nothing.

You were still calm. Content.

If you died there, you thought you’d be okay with it.

And then you heard the quiet sound of a gun being shot through a silencer. It echoed through the room before you heard the loud _smack_ of the handle of a gun being smacked against the back of Alexander’s head.

He collapsed on top of you, and his grip immediately eased.

You gasped for breath.

Then his weight was moved, and there was a hand hauling you to your feet. “ _We have to go,_ ” Spencer said. His voice sounded far away. Your head spun. Your vision was speckled with black dots.

You barely noticed Leo dead on the floor in a growing puddle of his own blood.

Spencer dragged you out of the study and towards the front door. You stumbled over your own feet as you went. He flung the front door open and yelled, “ _Don’t shoot_.”

His voice sounded even farther.

“ _Shit!_ Reid! Y/N!” That was Derek. He, along with Prentiss and JJ, came sprinting forward. Right behind them was a team of agents that flooded into the house.

The following events passed by in a blur. You and Spencer were herded into an awaiting ambulance as Prentiss got you both up to speed—they’d realized that Boucher was involved after they discovered that you and Spencer had been transported out of the estate through a blind spot in the perimeter security cameras. The estate was flooded with agents immediately, and Victor’s study was undergoing intense dissection. 

And they’d caught Boucher fleeing from Long Island about half an hour ago.

He was in federal custody.

And then the ambulance doors shut, and two EMTs were immediately examining you and Spencer. JJ had joined you on your way to the hospital. You were going to meet up with Preston, who had been a part of Boucher’s takedown with Rossi and Hotch, both of whom were in transit with Boucher back to DC.

And whether it was due to exhaustion or disgust or relief, you weren’t sure, but the calm that had overtaken you in the house had dissipated. And suddenly, you felt _everything_.

So when the EMT tried to assess the damage to your throat, examining the already blooming bruising on your neck and asking you to speak, you just started to sob.

It was over.

It was finally, _finally_ over.

Through your tears, you managed to smile to yourself.

And the tiny seed of hope that you’d nestled away in your heart sprouted and began to grow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :) thank you for reading! <3


	32. The Rose Did Caper on Her Cheek

You didn’t get a chance to talk to Spencer before he was whisked away for his wrist, and you were taken to a secure room on the top floor of the hospital. The area in which you and Spencer were undergoing treatment had been blocked off by agents; the only people allowed in and out were FBI personnel and a select few doctors and nurses.

You were poked and prodded at and had several vials of your blood drawn for testing as you sat on a hospital bed. You were given scrubs to change into, and an IV drip was stuck in your arm to treat dehydration. You were dizzy and lightheaded, and your vocal cords were swollen due to strangulation—causing your voice to come out raspy and hoarse—but otherwise, you were physically fine.

By the time you’d finally been left alone an hour and a half later, with two agents whose names you quickly forgot stationed outside your door, you were entirely spent. You looked at the watch on your wrist for the first time that entire night:  _ 4:17am. _

It was a wonder how you hadn’t collapsed yet.

You’d been instructed to stay in the room until a doctor or nurse cleared you to leave. And while you were sure that Spencer would be overall fine as well after treatment, you kept watching your IV drip, wishing it would move faster. 

You needed to see that he was alright with your own eyes. You needed to talk to him.

There was a knock at the door. You glanced over. “Yes?”

The door opened, and Preston walked in. He was shoving his badge back into his pocket as he closed the door behind him. And then he paused, staring at you from where he stood by the door.

And neither of you spoke as he finally crossed the room and approached you where you sat on the hospital bed. He slowly wrapped his arms around you, resting his chin on the top of your head. “Had me worried there for a second, sweetheart,” he whispered.

“I’m happy to see you too, Pres,” you answered. You leaned your head forward to rest it against his chest and closed your eyes. “How was Boucher?”

He snorted. “Pissed. Can’t believe we let that bastard lead us in circles for two years. Y’know, I always told you he was insufferable.” He let a few moments pass, and then added more quietly, “He demanded to speak with you before I left him with Hotchner and Rossi. I told him to shove it, but…”

You shook your head. “I can’t. Not for… not for a couple of days, at least.”

“You might not have a choice. When you and Reid get situated and debriefed, we’ll all be up to our necks in bureau bullshit. If Boucher won’t talk to anyone, you know that they’re gonna send you in to try. This is...” Preston huffed a laugh. “This is going to make national news by sunrise. The higher ups are going to be scrambling to save face. They’ll do anything. It’s gonna be a long while before it’s  _ really _ over. You’re gonna have to be ready for that bullshit.”

You sighed, “I know, but for now…” You pulled back away from him. Preston kept a hand on your shoulder as he looked down at you. “For now, I just want to pretend that it’s done. Just until I can’t.”

“That’s fair,” he answered softly, “but I want you to know…” He trailed off, and a smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “I’m proud of you, and I love you. And you’ve got a team of people out there who do, too. You know that, right?”

You breathed a laugh through your nose. “Yeah, I know. Love you, too, Pres.”

Preston paused, and then his face split into a grin. “Well, it only took you  _ eight years _ to say it back.”

“Don’t make it weird.”

He laughed, “I’d never dream of it, sweetheart.”

And the two of you settled into a comfortable silence. You glanced at your IV drip; it was nearly empty. 

You supposed you should ask about the state of the rest of them. Victor and Leo were surely dead (the reality of which would surely hit you in the coming days), but Alexander  _ did _ still help you. And even though the thought of his handprints on your throat made you want to vomit, you wanted to see if he still wanted to make a deal with the bureau. He could still be a source of valuable information, because Boucher and the Marseilles were merely the front faces for a much larger operation.

And, despite everything, a small part of you still cared about him. It wasn’t his fault that he’d been born into that family, that he’d been groomed into a life of organized crime. You still wanted to give him an opportunity to get out.

“Hey,” you said, “do you know if they’re taking Alexander down to DC, too? What’s going on with him?”

Preston stared at you for a few beats. “Y/N, Alexander isn’t in custody.”

Your body went cold. “What?” you whispered.

“Agents searched the house. They only found Victor and Leonardo in the study.” Preston furrowed his brows. “Why did you want to know?”

And so, with your heart rate quickly jacking up, you explained the situation to Preston—the deal you’d cut with Alexander, how you’d killed Victor unprovoked and had broken part of your end of the deal, how Spencer had supposedly knocked Alexander unconscious after killing Leo in self-defense.

All the while, Preston’s eyes widened. And when you were finished, he buried his face in his hands. “Oh,  _ fuck _ . That’s  _ bad _ . That’s  _ really fucking bad _ , Y/N.”

“Alexander is a  _ fully grown man _ . He couldn’t have just… disappeared,” you breathed. “He couldn’t have gotten far. They’ll find him.”

How he even evaded capture in general was astounding to you. 

“No, sweetheart, it’s not that. I don’t think you understand,” Preston answered, dragging his hands down his face. “Victor was Boucher’s second-in-command. With Boucher in custody and Victor and Leo dead, who do you think gets control of the mob?” He looked back up at you. “Y/N, you just fucked over their next leader.”

Oh.

_ Fuck _ .

Your mouth went dry. “Okay, but he’s… Alex wanted out. He’s not going to—”

“No, you’re biased,” he cut you off. “Okay— _ shit _ . Stay here.  _ Do not _ tell anyone else what you just told me. I’m going to find Agent Jareau, and we’ll figure out what to do next.” Preston started heading back towards the door.

“Wait,” you blurted out.

He paused with his hand over the door handle, looking back at you from over his shoulder.

Heat rose to your cheeks. “Is… do you know if Spencer’s okay? Can I see him?”

You  _ needed _ to talk to him—about what you’d just learned, and about everything else. And you didn’t feel like sitting in a cold hospital room by yourself for another hour, especially after hearing  _ that _ .

Preston’s face softened. “Yeah, he’s fine. His wrist was jacked up pretty bad. They had to do minor surgery, but last I checked, they were finishing up. He might be awake now. I’ll get the doctor to clear you.” And then he left.

A few minutes later, a doctor came by and removed the IV drip from your arm. She told you that your blood work results should come back soon, just so you could be certain that you hadn’t been injected with anything else while being held, and then she led you from the room. The two agents who’d been outside your door followed the two of you down the hall and into a post-op recovery area.

“Agent Reid is just waking up from general anesthesia, but he’s right through there,” she said.

You thanked her, nodded awkwardly to the agent stationed outside of Spencer’s room, and entered.

Spencer was lying in bed under a blanket, dressed in a hospital gown, with a nasal cannula tube feeding him oxygen. His left arm was tightly bandaged from the middle of his forearm to his palm. Upon hearing the door open and close, he turned his head in your direction. He didn’t say anything as you approached his bed and sat down on the very edge to his right.

And he remained silent as you leaned down and rested your forehead against his shoulder. He just took his good arm and wrapped it around you.

“Hi,” you whispered. “How are you feeling?”

He lightly cleared his throat, and when he spoke, his voice was slow and hoarse. “I’ve been better. How are you?”

“About the same.” You slowly pushed back up, and his arm fell to your lap. 

He peered up at you through eyes slightly glazed over by sedation. 

Quietly, you said, “Alexander isn’t in custody. I don’t know how, but he got out.”

Spencer sighed, “Yeah. JJ was in here just a minute ago. She gave me the status update.” 

Even though you weren’t entirely sure you wanted to hear the answer, you asked, “Why didn’t you… why didn’t you shoot him?”

Spencer thought for a few moments before taking a deep breath. “I was going to,” he admitted quietly. “When I saw him hurting you, I would have done anything to stop him. But I didn’t think you’d want me to kill him. And he  _ did _ help us.” He paused before adding in a softer voice, “And I don’t think he’s a  _ bad person _ . I mean, Leonardo was a violent narcissistic psychopath. I don’t… I don’t feel particularly bad about him, but Alexander is just…” He trailed off with a slight shrug.

“Just forced into a bad situation,” you finished, and Spencer nodded.

“Do you wish that I  _ had _ shot him?” he asked.

And you shook your head. “No. No, I don’t.”

“Then I’m glad that I didn’t,” he said. “But I  _ did _ tell JJ the truth… about how Victor died. The official statement will call it self-defense, but I just thought you should know.”

You understood. A federal agent shooting and killing a highly established mafia affiliate unprovoked would not bode well—publicly or internally. You were an agent first, and a woman with a personal vendetta second. Considering the fact that there were agents just outside, Victor and Leo could have both been in custody. As much as you hated to admit it, they would have been far more useful alive than dead.

But you hadn’t been considering the disciplinary action you might face when you’d done it. You hadn’t even really been thinking of anything, but you wouldn’t have changed what you did. Your only qualm was that you had not made Leo suffer the way he’d made so many others suffer.

And the lack of affection you felt for him, and Victor, and Boucher  _ did _ still surprise you. Aside from Alexander, you didn’t really have friends while growing up. You’d always been too busy. And Leo had been the closest thing you’d had to an older brother. You’d loved him like family.

Now, you wished you could have made him beg for mercy. You wished you could have destroyed him in mind, body, and spirit before watching him die— _ slowly _ —at your hand. You wished you could have heard him scream to drown out Lizzy and your father’s agony in the back of your head.

And that terrified you—the thought that you could even entertain such merciless notions. The thought that you wished you had the opportunity to stoop to his level of depravity, just to satisfy that pit of rage inside you.

But you just said, “Thank you,” and left it at that.

And then silence filled the room.

Spencer winced as he readjusted himself. He pressed a button on the side of the bed that elevated the top portion of the bed to a slant. He pushed himself up into a more seated position before leaning back against his adjusted bed. “I know this is a bad time, but I think that there are… a few things that we have to talk about.”

You nodded hesitantly. He’d heard… a  _ lot _ about your background, your past, all without context. And as soon as you were both discharged and back in Quantico, you’d be swept into what would ultimately be a months’ long process of bureaucratic bullshit. It made sense to get everything out  _ now _ before the window of opportunity closed.

But while you already pretty much knew what he’d wanted to say in his motel room just two nights ago, you also understood how that might have changed. And you couldn’t blame him. How could he still want something with someone whose life was as entrenched in tragedy as yours?

So when he opened his mouth again and took a breath, you cut him off: “Spencer, wait.”

He paused, briefly knitting his brows together in concern.

“I… just…” Your heart began racing in your chest, your face growing warm with anxiety. You looked down at his hand, still resting in your lap, and you picked it up in yours. You couldn’t look him in the eyes.

“I don’t… I don’t really know what it’s like to be…  _ okay _ , I guess,” you began quietly. “There have just been… so many things that have happened in my life, things that I still can’t even really… talk about without… without…” You trailed off, and Spencer squeezed your hand. You took a sharp breath. “Point is, the past fifteen years for me have been… difficult. And I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now, where I’m supposed to go from here, but… but I do know one thing for certain.”

You swallowed thickly, trying to search for the correct way to convey what you had to say. 

It was almost funny, honestly. 

You had prided yourself on your ability to articulate your thoughts with an unparalleled eloquence for the entirety of your life, and yet, the proper words to describe what Spencer meant to you eluded you entirely. You’d never felt the way you did for Spencer for anyone else before. And you’d spent so long lying to yourself—to the people around you—just to protect what little left you had of a heart, that the prospect of saying the truth aloud made your mind go blank. 

But you were just so tired of running, of lying, of pretending.

So after struggling to find the words for several moments, after trying to conjure a way to convey all that brewed in you, you finally settled for the sentiment at its core: “I’m in love with you, Spencer. That’s the only thing that I know for certain right now.”

You still couldn’t look at him, even as he quietly asked, “You are?”

You nodded.

“Can I confess something, too?”

You dared a quick glance to his face. It was unreadable. You just nodded again.

And he finally breathed a quick laugh. “I already knew.”

Your cheeks felt hot. “Is that so?”

“Yes, just as I know that you’re aware that I’m in love with you, as well. I have been for a while, now.”

And this time, you managed a shaky laugh. “I  _ did _ know that, yes.” But then, your smile faded, and you couldn’t stop yourself from quietly asking, “Why, though?”

“What?”

“How are you… I mean… I’m just…” You let out an exasperated breath. “I’m a mess. My life is… a trainwreck. How can you love someone like that?” You had been almost certain that after the gala and being held hostage, after learning almost how deep that darkness within you ran, that he’d change his mind.

And when you dared another look at his face, you found his brows furrowed, and his head tilted slightly to the side in confusion. “Well, why do you love  _ me _ ?”

You breathed a laugh. “Because you’re  _ you _ ?” you answered tentatively. 

He smiled. “There’s your answer.”

“But—”

He cut you off, “Could I just… psychoanalyze for a second here?”

You paused for a second before shrugging. “I guess.”

He thought for a few seconds before saying, “I think you believe that you’re the culmination of everything that has happened to you. I think that you believe that you and… your  _ trauma _ , I suppose, are inseparable entities. And while I’m fully aware that the vast majority of people struggle with self-perception—myself included—it always astounds me to hear you talk about yourself, because when I look at you, when I  _ think about _ you—which is quite often, in case you weren’t aware—I just see a woman who has been made to think that she isn’t deserving of good things, when in fact, she is more deserving than most.” He shrugged. “You are so much more than the things that have happened to you. And I wish that you could see yourself the way that everyone else does, even if only for a second.”

He tightened his grip on your hand as your eyes welled. “I don’t really… understand the nature of love in the abstract. If you’d asked me months ago, I would have told you that ‘love’ is little more than a series of manipulations in your brain—amygdala function ceases, canceling out feelings of apprehension and fear and doubt to paint the object of your affections in the perfect light; oxytocin and dopamine flood your brain to increase feelings of intimacy and closeness. Honestly, you could really argue that love is little more than an addiction neurologically, hence why break-ups tend to be as devastating as they are. It’s like forcing an addict into an abrupt withdrawal. But now…” 

He smiled again. “I think I finally understand what Tolstoy meant when he wrote ‘We are asleep until we fall in love.’ Being with you makes me feel like I’m awake. Alive. Complete. And forgive me for sounding illogical, but it feels like far more than just chemical manipulation. Being in love with you just feels like existing in its entirety—I don’t remember what came before, and I will never fully understand what could possibly come after. It just simply  _ is _ .”

And when you failed to respond, instead opting to just stare at him through water-lined eyes, he shyly asked, “Does that… does that answer your question?”

And you finally nodded. “Yeah,” you responded hoarsely, “yeah, that was a pretty good answer.”

“I’m glad.”

And in that moment, you forgot about Alexander, about what was yet to come, about everything that had happened to you. For just a moment, there was nothing more than you, and Spencer, and everything that was still fragile and growing between you. 

And you decided that even though you knew that there was still a long,  _ long _ road ahead, you could afford to just exist in this moment with him—where there was nothing before, and nothing after, and only the mere fact that you and him were so fortunate as to reside in the same pocket of life as one another.

So, because there was nothing else that you could possibly think to say, you leaned down and pressed your lips gently against his.

And his good hand quickly found its way to the side of your face, tenderly holding you as you just kissed him.

And when you pulled away, leaning your forehead against his, you smiled.

And he smiled back.

It was only when you heard a knock on the door that you pulled away, just as the door opened and the doctor reentered the room holding a tablet.

“Agent Reid, Agent Y/L/N,” she greeted with a warm smile. “I have your blood work here. You were each dosed with high levels of ketamine, but it should be completely flushed from your system within the next twenty-four hours.” Then she turned to you, and your heart sank. “But, Agent Y/L/N…” She paused, glancing down at her tablet screen before looking back up at you. “Could we speak in private?”

“No,” you blurted. And at the look of surprise on her face, you quickly added, “I just… I’m… you can say it here. It’s fine.”

Your heart began racing. They must have drugged you with something else, something  _ bad _ . And after everything, you were already in such a fragile state that you weren’t entirely sure that you could handle anything else.

Spencer just lightly squeezed your hand.

“Okay, then,” the doctor said, looking back down at her screen. And when she looked back up at you, she asked, “Agent Y/L/N, were you aware that you’re pregnant?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY I know that a lot of people hate the surprise pregnancy trope (and honestly, like... I do too) but I promise promise promise it serves an actual function in the story (thematically and plot-wise), and it's not just like a random thing that I threw in there. Just trust me 
> 
> I also know that this chapter was shorter than usual. The next two chapters will likely also be shorter (like 3k words ish?)
> 
> Thank you for reading! <3


	33. Love--Is Anterior to Life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CONTENT WARNING: IMPLIED/REFERENCED MISCARRIAGE

You blinked.

Then you laughed, “No, I’m not. That’s absurd.”

The doctor pressed her lips together. “Your blood contains hCG levels that are consistent with around five to six weeks of pregnancy.” Then she paused, before adding, “hCG stands for—”

“Human chorionic gonadotropin,” you cut her off briskly, “I’m aware of what it stands for and what it is. But you’re wrong.”

Irritation flashed across the doctor’s features. You couldn’t have cared less. And you refused to even so much as _look_ at Spencer, whose hand had gone limp in your own.

“Oh… kay,” she drew out. “Would you—”

You cut her off again as you hopped off your perch from Spencer’s bed and walked over to her. “I’m sorry—could I see that for a second?” you asked, pointing to her tablet.

She looked taken aback, even more so as you took the tablet from her hands without waiting for a response. Your eyes quickly scanned the screen.

Your hCG levels were close to 6,000 mIU/ml, which, given the non exact nature of the hormone and the broad range of levels that accompanied any given week of pregnancy, _did_ fall into what could be seen between five and six weeks.

You blinked at the screen a few times as if it would change the data.

And then you shoved the tablet back into the doctor’s hands. “There have been cases of phantom hCG levels in non-pregnant women before. It’s likely another case.”

Behind you, you heard Spencer softly say, “Y/N…”

You ignored him.

The doctor huffed out a breath and asked, “Okay, Agent Y/L/N, when was your last menstrual period?”

“I—” You paused.

You couldn’t answer.

You didn’t actually remember.

With everything else going on, you hadn’t noticed you were even late. 

And the doctor gestured towards you, as if to say, _well, there you go_.

“Okay, but—” You rubbed your face with your hand, resting it over one of your eyes as you closed them. “I take daily hormonal contraceptives to try and regulate my period. I don’t know if you’ve _realized_ , but it’s been a rather _stressful_ few weeks. It’s not _implausible_ that my cycle’s been thrown off, and the chances of getting pregnant _while taking_ oral contraceptives are just so statistically unlikely that—”

“Daily contraceptives are only ninety-nine percent effective if taken _perfectly_ —as in, at the exact same time every single day. Do you take it _at the exact same time_ every single day?”

You dragged your hand down your face, snapping, “I’m a federal fucking agent. I can’t just stop in the middle of a takedown to take my fucking _birth control_ just because it hits 8pm.”

“Well, then, the rate of effectiveness for oral contraceptives drops to around ninety-one percent, unless you use _other_ methods of contraception along with it. Do you?”

You couldn’t believe you were having this conversation right now. You felt like you were fifteen-years-old again, and your pediatrician was asking you whether or not you were even sexually active—which, at the time, you very much _were not_.

But mortification and denial were the only two things keeping you from succumbing to a slew of repressed memories that you _could not confront_ right now.

Still, the reality of the data on the doctor’s screen was slowly settling in, and you managed to mumble, “Sometimes.”

And the doctor sighed heavily. “Okay, I understand how and why this information might be upsetting or overwhelming at this moment in time. First time pregnancies are—”

“It’s not,” you cut her off hoarsely. 

“Sorry?”

“It’s not… it’s not the first…” You couldn’t even say it. Your throat was starting to close up. You could feel the blood draining from your face. And your heart was racing.

Honestly, you were so exhausted that you wouldn’t have been surprised if you passed out on the spot.

“Agent Y/L/N, do you need to sit down?”

“No. No, I’m… I’m fine,” you breathed. The air around you was beginning to thin. You began taking quicker, shallow breaths to compensate.

“Uh, okay,” she said, “I think you should sit down.” She dragged a chair from the nearby table and placed it next to you.

Despite what you’d said, you slowly sank down into the seat. You cast your gaze down onto the floor as the doctor continued speaking.

“There haven’t been any official studies documenting if and how _long term_ ketamine use impacts pregnancy and fetal development. That said, from a purely medical standpoint, there is a definite risk of fetal toxicity and the possibility of reduced neuronal development.” 

She paused before adding in a softer tone, “But these are just possibilities. The FDA has yet to assign ketamine to an official pregnancy risk category, and considering the fact that you were injected with _medical_ _grade_ ketamine, and not for long term use, I would say that the fetus should be fine. If you plan on carrying this pregnancy to term—” You flinched at that. “—then I would suggest making an appointment with an OB/GYN as soon as you get home, just in case.”

The pager in her coat pocket beeped, and she dug it out to glance at the tiny screen. “I’m being called, but you can ask the desk for my card if you have any questions for me. Take care, agents.”

And then she walked out of the room and closed the door behind her.

And you and Spencer were left in silence.

You squeezed your eyes shut, taking a deep breath as you braced your elbows on your knees and buried your face in your hands. You were vaguely aware of Spencer calling your name.

You supposed you shouldn’t have been surprised; you and Spencer hadn’t exactly taken _extra precautions_ every single time you slept together. But you hadn’t considered the lessened rate of effectiveness for your own daily contraceptives.

And of course this would happen just as you thought you had figured _one thing_ out.

Spencer called your name again.

You sank deeper into yourself.

The smell of the hospital. The harsh fluorescent lights above. That _gratingly_ calm voice of a doctor who knew nothing about you. All of them transported you back into that portion of your life—the one you’d sworn to block out. You couldn’t stop the flow of memories.

How you’d collapsed at the lab after feeling sick all day and suddenly like you’d been stabbed in the abdomen. How one of your research assistants had found you and had to accompany you to the hospital. How you’d had to listen to the doctor relay everything she’d told you to Alexander once he’d arrived at the hospital.

The look on his face: grief, then blame. 

Even if he’d told you in the basement that he no longer thought it had been your fault, that part of you would always whisper those insidious thoughts to you—the thoughts that had plunged you into an all-consuming funereal darkness.

Because it had been your fault.

Your fault.

It was your fault.

A gentle touch on your shoulder jolted you from your thoughts, and you shot up from your chair, whirling around to see Spencer standing beside you. His left arm was still limp from anesthesia.

“You shouldn’t be standing,” you breathed.

“I’m fine,” he answered brusquely. Then, more gently, he asked, “Are you?”

You’d lost track of how many times he’d had to ask you that, of how many times _anyone_ had to ask you that. For a long time, the question would spark an irrational rage, regardless of the intent of the asker. It was like a reminder of everything wrong with you.

Instinctually, you cleared your throat and said, “Yep.”

Spencer didn’t look convinced. And you…

You shook your head and corrected yourself: “No, actually. I’m not. That… that’s…” You sighed and rubbed the heel of your palm into your eye. “I’m sorry,” you whispered, looking back up at him.

He blinked. “What are you apologizing for?”

“I’ve been… I should have realized this earlier. I’ve felt sick for the past two weeks, but I just… I thought it was anxiety. And…” Your cheeks grew warm. “I should have noticed I was late. It’s just that with everything else going on… I didn’t… it didn’t even…” You looked down and chewed on the inside of your cheek. 

Spencer exhaled a laugh through his nose. “You have nothing to be sorry about. I’d remind you of the fact that conception requires _two parties_ , but I, uh… I don’t think that’s necessary. And…” And he opened his right arm to you. You didn’t hesitate before tucking yourself into his side, leaning your face into him.

And that was when you noticed that his body was completely rigid, his right arm trembling ever so slightly.

And you realized that he was forcing himself to keep composure for your sake.

You wrapped your left arm around his back, avoiding where his left arm still hung limp, and rested your right hand on his chest. You shut your eyes to force back tears. 

How had you ever thought you could walk away from Spencer? How had you been so foolish as to believe that you would not fall in love with him—the embodiment of all that was patient, and kind, and wonderful in the world?

How had you ever wanted to live a day without him? 

And it wasn’t about necessity; you could survive just fine for the rest of your life by yourself. You’d done it before; you could do it again. And that deep pit inside you still whispered notions of self-loathing and pity, wrapping you in the idea that you were not deserving of his warmth.

But for the first time in fifteen years, you wanted to try and silence those thoughts. Permanently. You wanted to learn to believe that you deserved to love and be loved, to live life as it was meant to be experienced—whatever that meant. 

He continued softly, “Whatever… whatever you want to do, I will support you. You know that, right?”

And you nodded, because you did.

Perhaps it was time for you to finally tell that story—the one you’d never thought you’d be able to tell, the entire truth as you’d experienced it. At any rate, he’d already learned bits and pieces of it, and for the first time, laying yourself entirely bare was not as daunting as it had always seemed.

For the first time, you wanted someone to know every part of you, even those which had never seen the light of day, and those that left scars within you that would never fully heal.

Maybe that was the first step in figuring out what to do next.

“When we get home,” you whispered, “Let’s talk about… _this_. And I just… I have to tell you something else.”

“Okay.” He planted a kiss on the top of your head. “I love you.”

And you smiled despite yourself. You didn’t think you’d ever get used to hearing that. “I love you, too.”

And by the way his grip on you tightened upon hearing you say those words again, you figured that Spencer felt exactly the same way.

Then there was another knock on the door. You pulled away from him and turned towards the door as he called, “Come in.”

The door opened, and Preston, Emily, JJ, and Derek all walked into the room. Preston was carrying both of your go-bags in either of his hands, and he gently placed them inside the room by the door. You shot him a thankful look.

“How are we doing?” Derek asked as he closed the door behind him.

You moved to the side so Spencer could sit down in your chair, responding, “Coping. Anything new?”

Work would help clear your head, you thought.

“Hotch and Rossi took the jet to transport Boucher. They’ve already touched down and are with a small secure team of agents. Victor and Leonardo are currently being transported to DC for their autopsies and processing,” Emily responded. “No update on Alexander, unfortunately, but the entire estate in Sagaponack is being investigated for leads on the rest of the mafia’s activities.”

“He can’t have gone far, though,” JJ added. “We have search teams all over Fire Island and the surrounding mainland. We’ll find him.”

Derek continued, “In the meantime, we’re all getting agents stationed outside our homes. Wouldn’t be surprised if we’ll have them tailing us for the next few weeks. The higher-ups have ordered us to stand by. Stay home and on-call until they can figure out how to handle the press and what to do with us.”

“That’s understandable,” Spencer responded. “This isn’t just a scandal. One of the bureau’s missions is to protect against foreign intelligence threats. This could drastically change the way American citizens view their defense systems, their politicians, their own safety. We might be looking at the next Watergate in terms of media coverage if it isn’t handled properly.”

“Not to mention—we don’t even know if they had ties to other mobs,” Preston added. “The Corsican mafia is small relative to the Italian or Russian mob, but that bastard was as well connected as they come. With that much influence in the US government, he could have had threats from all over the globe eatin’ out of the palm of his hand.”

“And the internal investigation is going to be hell,” you said. “Boucher was the _director_. If he managed to get that far up the ladder…”

“Who knows who he brought with him. He’s probably got people in every division,” Derek finished.

And the six of you fell into an uneasy silence, the uncertainty of the future of your careers and the entire FBI weighing heavily on all of you.

JJ was the one to break the silence with a heavy sigh. “I’m… I’m ready to go home, now.”

“Yeah,” Derek said. “Me too.”

And you couldn’t have agreed more, especially given all that you had just learned, but you couldn’t leave Long Island just yet. 

“Hey,” you asked, “is my car still on the Marseilles’ estate?”

Derek shook his head. “Garcia drove it over. She stayed with the vans for tech support while we were all in pursuit. Fair warning—she might try to buy it off you.”

She had already tried offering you a price when she first saw it. Unfortunately for her, it wasn’t for sale.

More quietly, you said, “It, uh… it was my dad’s, so I need to put it back and get _my_ car.”

Preston looked down at his watch. “It’s a five and a half hour drive back from the Hamptons to DC. We better leave now if we want to get home by noon.”

“Oh, you guys don’t have to come wi—”

“Funny joke, sweetheart,” Preston cut you off. Then he gestured to the rest of the BAU. “C’mon. Let’s get the lovers discharged so we can get on the road.”

You froze. “What did you just say?”

And Emily looked over her shoulder at you as they started filing out. Despite the heavy tension and uncertainty in the air, she managed a wry smile. “You didn’t _seriously think_ the rest of us didn’t notice, did you?”

No one aside from JJ had ever formally brought it up with you, and even then, it had been more speculative than definitive. You probably should have assumed, but…

“Uh, how long?” you asked.

Derek looked over at JJ and Prentiss. “Since, what? That night at O’Keefe’s?” He looked back over to you, and upon finding your eyes clouded with confusion, he added, “You and Garcia got those frilly pink drinks with the umbrellas.”

You blinked. “That… that was in early November, wasn’t it?”

He winked at you before shutting the door, leaving you and Spencer alone again in silence.

And Spencer just craned his head up to look at you and smiled.

***

When you arrived at the blue house on the beach, it was still mostly dark, with the sun just barely peeking out over the horizon. There was no activity yet in the neighborhood aside from a single jogger dressed in expensive athletic clothes, running alongside her border collie.

How strange it was that you had been here just twenty-four hours ago. How different your life had been.

Despite all you’d endured, you’d always be astounded by how so much could change in such little time.

Garcia sat beside you in the convertible. After pulling you and Spencer into bone crushing hugs upon seeing you both alive and well, she’d called riding back to the house in the car with you. 

“To say goodbye to my brief affair,” she’d said as she pointed to your convertible.

Her eyes were brimming with tears of relief at being able to see the two of you alive herself, so you couldn’t say no.

Everyone was exhausted. The local coffee shop a few streets over (a family run business that was still open after all these years) would open in fifteen minutes. The six of you could get enough caffeine there to survive the long drive home.

But driving while chatting with Garcia left a slight smile on your face. It certainly was enough to momentarily distract you from what was yet to come, and from the fact that you were pregnant.

After last time, you never thought you would be again.

Maybe you could use the drive home to think about what exactly to say to Spencer.

You pulled into the driveway beside your SUV and clicked the garage door remote, driving into the garage before cutting the engine. You sighed and clambered out of the car after swiping your purse and a garment bag from the backseat.

In the driveway, the rest of the team piled out of the SUV Derek was driving.

Derek let out a low whistle as he approached you. “Big house,” he commented.

“It’s in desperate need of repair. Before yesterday, I hadn’t been here since I was eighteen,” you answered, digging your keys from your bag. 

You unlocked the door and were met with the hollow silence of the once vibrant home. You sighed softly to yourself before turning back to the team. “It’s pretty dusty inside, and everything’s wrapped in plastic. But you’re all welcome to come in, if you want. I just need to put a few things back.”

Then you led the team inside and pointed them to the back wall—completely made of windows—and the deck, where they could see the first rays of light reaching across the ocean through a gap in the otherwise dense layer of clouds.

While they headed to the deck, you jogged up the stairs to your parents’ old room. Unlike yesterday, you didn’t linger from intimidation outside, instead walking straight in and to the closet. You found the hanger where you had found your mother’s shawl and slowly placed the garment bag back onto it.

You unzipped it and ran your fingers through the plush white fur.

And then, after zipping the bag back up, you walked out of the room and down the hall, to where yours and Lizzy’s rooms sat across from one another. You opened her bedroom door and headed straight to her vanity desk. You unclasped her pearl necklace from your neck and removed the matching earrings, placing them back in her jewelry box.

And then you paused.

Her vanity mirror was littered with polaroids of her and her high school friends, but resting face down on her desk was a framed photo. It was almost completely covered by stray papers—old school assignments, you realized. You hadn’t noticed it yesterday.

You gently swiped the assignments away before picking up the photograph.

Your breath hitched.

It was a baby photo of the two of you. You couldn’t have been older than four or five, making Lizzy just a toddler. You were holding her hand as you beamed into the camera. She, however, was looking up at you instead, her eyes bright and full of adoration with a wide grin on her face. She had a tremendous red bow in her hair.

And you remembered that bow to be yours. You had been the one to put it on her.

The perfect image of innocence, of two sisters who could never even imagine the horrors that would befall them.

You didn’t notice that you started crying until a tear slipped from your cheek and onto the glass protecting the photo.

“I’m so sorry I couldn’t save you,” you whispered into the emptiness of the room. 

It was the apology that had brewed in your heart since that fateful night, when you’d failed your duty as her older sister. When she’d cried out to you for help and had been met with a silent stare. When you had sat uselessly by the side while she endured agony after agony.

“And I’m so sorry it took me so long to figure it out.” You took a deep shaky breath before pressing the photo to your chest. “But I did it. I finally did it.” And then you managed a weak smile. “And my team is downstairs. I couldn’t do it without them. You would have loved them. I think they’ve helped to make me brave, just like you always told me to be. And I think… I think I’m going to try to keep being brave—to just… live.” 

For her. For your parents. 

To live, _for them_ , because you were still here carrying on their legacies.

To live, _for yourself_ , for the good you did for the world alongside the BAU, for the delicate still unnamed _thing_ between you and Spencer. 

To live, just because you weren’t undeserving of the air you breathed.

And for the first time in fifteen years, a part of you was starting to believe it.

With one last shaky breath, you wiped the tears from your cheeks and gently placed the photograph in your purse.

Maybe when you got home, you would go through the photo albums you had stored away in a box in your office. Maybe you’d hang some of them up in the main room.

With one last parting glance to Lizzy’s bedroom, you walked out and across the hall to your own bedroom.

You headed to your bed, where your collection of Dickinson poems and Spencer’s gift of Chaucer’s _Troilus and Criseyde_ sat on top of the dusted plastic. You’d promised yourself that you’d be back to get them yesterday morning, and so you picked them up as well and set them in your bag alongside the picture frame.

And then you sighed, taking in the evidence of your childhood as your eyes scanned the room.

You couldn’t stop yourself from walking to the far wall, where a built-in bookshelf took up the majority of the wall, only stopped by windows on either side. It was horribly unorganized. You couldn’t bring yourself to be embarrassed at its sorry state. 

You ran your fingers along old and cracked spines of books, glancing over old textbooks that had been shoved here and there.

And when you’d walked the expanse of it from left to right, you stopped.

And then you laughed to yourself.

You had five separate copies of Faulkner’s _A Light in August_ —one with just the plain text, and four others with academic annotations printed alongside the original text, all from different English scholars. If you counted the two copies you had at your apartment, you had _seven_ altogether. 

If you were to actually look in depth at the contents of your bookshelf, you had no doubt that you’d find several copies of _everything_ on there. Sometimes, it was just because you had somehow accumulated extra copies of a book, and other times, it was because you wanted to annotate the book but also wanted a clean copy.

Regardless, even you recognized that no one needed _seven separate copies_ of _A Light in August_.

You plucked one of them off the shelf; it was your original copy, with just the original text and your own annotations. Neon colored tabs stuck out of several pages, and you flipped to one of them.

Your eyes softened at the highlighted quote it directed you to:

_‘Perhaps they were right in putting love into books,’ he thought quietly. ‘Perhaps it could not live anywhere else.’_

Up until recently, you’d thought such a thing to be true.

Now…

You heard a knock on the door, and you jolted in surprise, whipping your head around to find the source.

“Sorry,” Spencer said. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I just came to check up on you.”

By the way his eyes wandered around your room, you figured his curiosity had also gotten the best of him. You said as much.

And he smiled sheepishly. “Well, you _can_ actually tell a lot about a person from their childhood bedroom.”

“Is that so?” 

He nodded. “I’m sure you already know, but we begin to develop our own genuine preferences in adolescence. We try to build our own identity through things like music, clothing, decor, and more. It’s why most people tend to have a deep attachment to their adolescent interests.”

You glanced around your room—at the copy of your bachelor’s degree hanging over your bed, at the upright piano, at the massive bookshelf behind you.

“You’re not going to find anything you didn’t already know in here, Spencer,” you said with a slight smile.

He exhaled a laugh. “I figured.” Then he walked over to you and asked, “What book is that?” You showed him the cover and he laughed again. “That’s _deeply_ unsurprising at this point.”

You shoved his good arm lightly, and then glanced down at his bandaged left arm. “How’s that feeling?”

“It doesn’t really hurt yet, but it’ll start within the next few hours. They, uh…” He trailed off for a moment, sniffing and scrunching his nose up briefly. “They gave me prescription narcotics for it. I’d rather not take those, though.”

You nodded. “Mixing ibuprofen and acetaminophen instead of painkillers will take care of moderate pain and swelling. I have both at home. You can take it when we get there.”

He raised his brows, and you realized your slip up.

Your cheeks grew warm, and you breathed a laugh to yourself. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“No, no, it’s fine. Do you… want me to stay over?” 

You cleared your throat. “Well, just logistically, it makes sense. We still have to… _talk_ , and… you know, my apartment is higher up. It has better security, and…” You looked down at the book in your hands. “I also would rather not be alone. So.”

You dared a glance back up at him, and his eyes softened. “I feel the same.”

Then his eyes darted down to his feet before lifting back up, settling on the window beside the bookshelf. His brows raised. “It’s snowing,” he said.

You followed his gaze to find the air full of tiny flurries.

And even though you had grown to associate snow, one of the things you adored as a child, with that horrid night, you couldn’t stop yourself from smiling at the sight. “And miles to go before I sleep,” you whispered.

Spencer looked back down at you. “And miles to go before I sleep,” he echoed with a slight smile, one which you returned.

Then you glanced over to the door with a sigh. “We should probably hit the road. It’s going to be a long drive, and we’re all exhausted.”

He hummed his agreement as you replaced the novel back onto the shelf.

And then you paused. “Can I be honest for a second?” you asked.

“Of course.”

“At the risk of sounding pretentious… Faulkner actually is one of my favorite authors.”

And Spencer smiled again as he said, “Mine too.”

And so the two of you left that chamber of your youth, forever frozen in a simpler time, and descended the stairs together. You rejoined with the rest of the team, and with half the team in your car, and the other half in Derek’s, you all began the long drive back to Quantico. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cried writing this chapter lol i'm so emotionally attached to their relationship
> 
> thank you for reading!


	34. Life Is But Life...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CONTENT WARNING: IN DEPTH DISCUSSION OF SUICIDAL IDEATION, PAST SUICIDE ATTEMPT, DRUG ADDICTION, AND PAST MISCARRIAGE. PLEASE READ WITH CAUTION.

The drive to Quantico took just over six hours, and when you finally arrived home after dropping off Preston and Penelope at their respective houses, you were ready to pass out. You had all taken turns driving at various points throughout the trip, switching drivers at rest stops along the way as you refueled and picked up food.

There were two unmarked cars with tinted windows sitting idly outside your apartment. The make and model were consistent with those used by the bureau.

Derek was right; they had sent agents.

A hopeful part of you thought that it was for the safety of everyone in the BAU, but realistically, it was likely to keep tabs on all of you. When the higher ups decided to call all of you back in, whether for debriefing or investigation, you had no doubt that you’d likely be a person of interest. It didn’t matter that Boucher and the Marseilles had committed atrocities to your family; you had been and were “close” with them. That was enough to warrant an in-depth dissection into your life.

But, for now, after parking your car and heading into the building (where Thomas greeted you and Spencer with wide eyes at the still visible injuries you’d sustained—his left wrist, the bruise on his cheek, and the strangulation bruises still wrapping around your throat, as well as bruises from the harsh injections of ketamine on both of your necks), the two of you headed up to your apartment.

When you walked over the threshold, you closed and locked the door behind you, and you led Spencer into your bedroom. He paused in the doorway, his eyes widening slightly in surprise.

And you realized that the last time he’d been here was the night you’d found out that he’d gone digging into your life with Garcia. A part of you felt that you should still be angry about that, but it was hard to hold it against him when you were just glad that both of you were alive.

But you had forgotten about the disarray in which you’d left your room after kicking him out. You’d cleaned up the glass from the shattered picture frame a few days afterwards, but your bookshelf was still on the ground, the surrounding area littered with fallen books. You didn’t have the energy to clean it up in the past two weeks.

Your face grew warm. 

But Spencer didn’t comment as he walked into the room and placed his go-bag down by the door. He leaned against the wall and just waited for you to say something. His face was haggard with both exhaustion and pain.

Wordlessly, you walked into your bathroom and swiped the bottles of ibuprofen and acetaminophen from the cabinet beneath your sink. You filled a glass up with water before returning and giving him a fairly strong dose of both.

“This won’t help with severe pain, but it should take away some of the discomfort and help with swelling.” Then, as he nodded gratefully and downed the pills and the water, you gently added, “If it gets really bad, I think you should take the narcotics. Pain-control aids in recovery.”

He handed the glass back to you. “I know, but…” The strained look on his face told you everything.

You gave him a soft look to tell him you understood.

Then you stepped away and placed the empty glass on your nightstand. “Before we… get into everything, I want to shower. I feel… disgusting.” You looked down at his wrist with a frown. “I’ll get you a plastic bag to wrap that in. You can use my shower since it’s bigger, and you’ll have more room to move. I’ll shower in my office bathroom.”

He just nodded. You went and grabbed a plastic bag from your kitchen and left him to his devices in your bedroom.

You headed to your office with your purse and a change of clothing. You approached the narrow L-shaped shelf in the back left corner with a sigh. The formal family photo that had once sat there on display in a frame was now lying flat without any covering.

You didn’t dwell. Instead, you reached into your purse and took out the photograph of you and Lizzy that you’d taken from her room. You placed it on its own shelf before turning around and looking at the mess around you.

This room was a hidden shrine of a past life. You’d kept all real mementos of your family out of any main space in your apartment purely because you didn’t want to be reminded of how you’d failed them when you were just doing something as simple as making your morning coffee. 

Maybe when all this blew over, you’d finally sift through the memories. Hang a few photos in the main room. Let them inhabit your life now in a healthier way.

But that was a decision for your future self. Now, you just wanted to wash away the grime that coated your skin.

So you entered the adjacent bathroom and started a shower. You took your time. The idea of your upcoming conversation with Spencer still made your heart race, and the anxiety left you standing under a stream of steaming hot water for longer than necessary. Half an hour must have passed before you forced yourself out.

You dressed yourself in an oversized black t-shirt and gray joggers and then stared at your reflection in the mirror.

The face that looked back at you was haggard and gaunt with exhaustion, and you looked like a wreck (or precisely how you would expect one to look after being held hostage and drugged for several hours). But there was something soft about your expression that you hadn’t seen in yourself in years.

And that was enough to give you the courage to finally leave the office and head back to your bedroom.

But when you arrived on silent feet, you froze in the doorway.

And your heart swelled.

Spencer had righted your bookshelf and was kneeling on the ground, picking up the fallen books from the ground to place them back where they belonged. His hair was still sopping wet from his shower, and he had a towel slung over his shoulders. He had changed into his usual pajamas of a white cotton t-shirt and plaid flannel pajama pants, and he had traded his contact lenses for his glasses.

“Spencer,” you called softly. He turned his head in your direction, but didn’t make any moves to stand. “You don’t… you don’t have to do that.”

One side of his lips quirked up into a lopsided smile. “I know, but… I just can’t stand to see books on the ground.” And he went back to his task.

You stood in the doorway for a few more moments before crossing across the room and joining him. “Yeah,” you whispered, more to yourself than him, as you picked up your old copy of _The French Lieutenant’s Woman_. The cover was now ripped by the spine. “Neither can I.”

The two of you worked in silence to restore the bookshelf to its original glory. Several of your older books now sported cracked spines, and a few pages had ripped here and there, but overall, nothing too bad. After fifteen minutes, all of the books were back where they were supposed to be, and the two of you ended up sitting on your bed—backs leaned against the headboard, his legs crossed while you stretched yours out.

You sat in silence for a few moments, letting your new reality wash over you. And when you thought about how this all started—with Spencer giving you his company when you planned to drink away your darkness for the evening—you couldn’t help but laugh to yourself.

He lolled his head towards you. “What?” he asked.

“No, nothing. I was just thinking… about how grateful I am that you came to find me that night at the bar. That you took a shitty tequila shot with me and invited me over afterwards.” 

Spencer gave you a tired smile, and he looked down at his lap as his brows knit together slightly. “You know… I, uh… I really don’t drink alcohol. Ever.” He huffed a laugh to himself and shook his head. “It’s never appealed to me in the slightest. The short term benefits of lowered anxiety and increased sociability aren’t worth the potential outcomes of long-term use—of developing cirrhosis, developing Wernicke-Korsakoff syndrome, other long term brain deficits. And, you know, the mental fog that accompanies any level of inebriation is just… off putting…” He trailed off, and then he looked back up at you. “But that night… I wanted you to know that you didn’t _have_ to always… be alone, I guess. And if that _truly awful_ shot of tequila was the only way you’d see camaraderie, then I was happy to do it.”

His smile widened. “If I’m being totally honest, I think I’ve been in love with you for longer than I initially thought. I think I’ve been in love with you since your first day at the BAU, when you laughed at my joke.”

You remembered that vividly. You had been silently setting up your desk in the bullpen while Prentiss and Derek jested with each other a few feet away. He’d said a terrible pickup line—something that eluded your memory now—and Prentiss had told him that he needed better jokes if he wanted results (which, you would soon learn, was never actually an issue with Derek). 

The two traded obscene jokes, once even prompting JJ to groan with distaste, until Spencer had piped in with: “Why wouldn’t you want to invite John Milton to play a game of Yahtzee? Because with him, there’s always a pair of dice lost!”

Derek and Prentiss had both stared at him for a moment before you snickered at your desk.

You hadn’t even realized anyone had heard you. It had sounded like a sneeze more than anything, and you hadn’t exactly wanted to draw any extra attention to yourself.

Evidently, you had been wrong. 

“I didn’t think you noticed,” you whispered.

“People don’t usually laugh at my jokes. I tend to notice the odd few who do.”

“Their loss. It was a cute joke. Pair of dice lost. _Paradise Lost_. Classic word play.”

He chuckled and looked back down, and you just stared at him with a smile.

The smile faded from your lips as you took his good hand in yours. You figured you should say what you needed to say before you lost your nerve.

So you took a deep breath and quietly started: “You know, I didn’t have… a ton of friends growing up.” 

You dared a shy glance up and found his brown eyes trained on you. He gave you an encouraging smile, and you huffed a laugh. 

You continued, “I was always too busy for them, and being homeschooled doesn’t exactly… lend itself to much socializing.” You laughed to yourself again. “There was _one summer_ when I was twelve where one of my tutors convinced my parents to send me to this dumb two-week sleepaway camp in the forest of Pennsylvania. She was worried that, you know, between the advanced calc and physics and literature and the hours of piano practicing that I never had any time to just be a kid. She was right, obviously, but… I wasn’t really _cool_ enough for the cool girls, and I was too nerdy for the nerdy girls. And I never thought of myself as _better_ than them just because I understood quantum mechanics and read Dostoevsky. I didn’t even really consider myself as _smarter_ than them in any way that mattered, but… teenage girls can be mean. _Really_ mean.”

You glanced back up at him again, and his face was soft with understanding. Perhaps this was one of the many burdens you shared together. Genius tended to be the loneliest blessing.

So you shrugged and looked back down. “All I really had was… my sister, Lizzy, and…” You swallowed. “And Alexander. Lizzy was pretty much my best friend growing up, and when… when she and my parents died… well, quite literally all I had left were the Marseilles and Boucher. And that was… okay, for a while. I was dating Alexander at the time and just… got an apartment with him while I was getting my masters’ degrees and my PhD. I kind of thought I could just… keep going about my life, but…” 

You let out a heavy sigh. Your voice became even quieter as you said, “But every time I tried to sleep, every time I tried to even just close my eyes, all I saw was… was…” You trailed off.

Spencer squeezed your hand to let you know that he understood.

You shook your head. “I thought if I just… buried myself in my work and my research and everything, I’d be able to just… _get over it_ , you know? But… but I was _so afraid_ of sleeping, so I… didn’t.” You cleared your throat. “I’d, uh… I’d force myself to stay awake until I’d basically collapse. And it got harder to do it by myself, so I started using prescription stimulants—methylphenidate, mainly. And they… were great at first. I felt physically better than I had in a long time. Even when I was so exhausted that I could barely move or think, they’d keep me up. I probably only really slept for a few hours every forty-eight hours, or so. They made my new life a little more bearable. So I kept using them, and… I got addicted to them.”

Spencer rubbed his thumb over the back of your hand in a comforting sweep.

“But time passed, and I lost… a scary amount of weight, and all the sleepless nights were taking their toll, and the drugs were wreaking havoc on my body. And I had to take more to get the same results, so I _did_ . And every day, I felt a little worse than the last, a little more hollow. At some point, being asleep sometimes seemed better than forcing myself awake, because even if I woke up screaming, I’d be feeling _something_ other than emptiness. But I just… kept going, because I thought that eventually, it’d have to go away. Eventually I wouldn’t feel like I was slowly dying. But I wanted to be ‘okay’ so badly that I ended up just running myself into the ground.”

You took another deep breath. “And then, when I was twenty-three, I got pregnant. I wasn’t taking birth control at the time; I didn’t really care enough to even think about that, or… really other contraceptive methods. I didn’t even think I _could_ get pregnant, to be honest. I’d go months without a period because I’d lost so much weight. But Alex and I were already engaged, and he had always wanted kids, so I thought that… that maybe… I’d feel like I’d have a purpose again.”

You groaned softly and buried your face in your hands. “Which is _so fucked up_ to say out loud, but at the time, I was just desperate for _something_.”

You slid your hands down your face before bringing your knees up to your chest and wrapping your arms around them. You sighed again. “And… and when I was little, I had wanted to be a mom one day. Granted, that was way farther down the line in my dumb little thirty year life plan, but that future wasn’t even a thought in my mind anymore. So I figured maybe I could do it at twenty-three. And I tried—I _honest to god tried_ —to stop using the stimulants, but I couldn’t. I felt terrible when I was on them at this point, but _god_ , it was somehow worse if I wasn’t.”

Then, in a low, emotionless voice, you said, “And then I miscarried at eleven weeks at my lab. One of… one of my research assistants had to take me to the hospital.” You scoffed a laugh. “And obviously they found all the drugs in my blood. And the doctor told Alexander about everything, and he… blamed me, I guess. He had been at grad school and then began working on Wall Street, so he was just as busy as I was. He didn’t really notice that anything was _that_ wrong.

“But I didn’t… I didn’t really feel anything about it at first. I didn’t care. Not beyond a superficial level. Not beyond the fact that it had made Alexander upset, so I should have been upset, too. And for a week, it was just like that—just… nothing. But Alexander couldn’t find where I kept the stimulants, and I wouldn’t tell him. I told him I’d stop right then and there. He stayed home for a week, so I couldn’t really… _use them,_ otherwise he’d send me to rehab. So I went through… _bad_ withdrawal. Everything… everything was so much worse than it had ever been—the… the nightmares, the emptiness… 

“But then Alexander was called out to Long Island by Victor, and I was alone in the apartment for a day. And I was… so low. And I started wondering if Alexander was right, if it _was_ my fault—if everything that had happened, to my parents and Lizzy too, was my fault, because I wasn’t smart enough to figure out how to get out of it—and I just… calculated how many milligrams of methylphenidate I’d have to take to induce a heart attack. And I took it.”

You paused for a second, letting out a long sigh. “But Boucher had been in the city, and Alexander had asked him to check on me. Gave him a key and everything in case I didn’t answer. So he was the one who found me and got me to the hospital. The doctors told me that if he’d gotten there even a minute and a half later, I likely wouldn’t have survived. So that’s… that’s why when I started the operation, and he told me to keep it quiet, I wanted to follow his instruction. That’s why I never brought it to the BAU. I literally owe that bastard my life.

“And then I quit working at the lab, and I just… gave up. On everything. Alexander hired this nurse to be in the apartment with me while he was at work just to make sure I didn’t… do it again. That went on for two months until my therapist told him that she didn’t think I’d try again. And a month later, I found out he’d been bribing my therapist to record our sessions and send them to him. I’d been seeing her since I was nineteen, by Victor’s recommendation, so… so I guess she must have known about _them_ , and what they did, _maybe_?” 

You sighed again. “I don’t know. I threatened a lawsuit and to get her license revoked, but I left Alexander that night, and I didn’t have the energy to pursue litigation. I was alone for two years, renting an apartment in Manhattan, before I got my shit together and joined the FBI. 

“But if you… if you looked at my file, then you know that there’s… deleted information” You looked back over at Spencer. His expression was unreadable. “The bureau keeps records of medical history among other things. And I _barely_ passed my psych eval. And I was just… so ashamed of my research, of my history, of pretty much everything that I’d done since Lizzy and my parents died that I wanted any reminders of it gone. I didn’t want _anyone_ to see it.”

You took another pause, and you rubbed at your eye with the heel of your palm. “And you know the rest,” you whispered. “And… the reason I’m saying this is because I need you to know that I just… I _don’t know_ how to do this. I don’t know how to be in a relationship. I don’t really know _how_ to love someone the way that I love you. I don’t know how to just let myself try and be ‘okay.’”

You blinked a few times as you found tears welling up in your eyes. You cleared your throat and shifted uncomfortably in your seat, looking down at your knees. “The thing that no one talks about being… sick, about being _miserable_ , is how comforting is to just let yourself stay miserable. It becomes a compulsion. A need. It’s the only thing that’s familiar, so why bother trying to change, you know? And for so long, I never fought against that. I thought I deserved it—all of it. Most of me still thinks I do.”

This time, when you looked back up at him, you held his expressionless stare. A tear rolled down your cheek. “And when I joined the BAU, and I met you and the team, I suddenly had this wonderful group of people in my life. And it was different than being friends with Preston.” You huffed a laugh. “I mean, we literally became friends over how fucked up we both were at the time. But you guys… were like this force of light and goodness in a very _dark_ world, and I was so afraid of really being a part of that because I didn’t know who I was anymore if I wasn’t miserable. If I didn’t _hate_ everything that I was and had ever been. And I didn’t want to risk getting attached to more people that I could just lose again, that I couldn’t save if I needed to.”

Your breath hitched as you added, “But when I woke up that second time in the basement, and I saw you hurt, I just… I realized that _if_ we got out of there alive, I wouldn’t waste another second pretending like I didn’t love you with every fiber of my being. 

“I don’t _want_ to be… miserable and alone anymore. I don’t _want_ to _live_ _like_ _that_. And if somehow you _still_ want me after knowing all of that, then… then I want a future with you, Spencer. A good one. And I can’t promise that I’ll be easy, or always… ‘okay,’ or that I won’t mess up. I can’t even promise that I’ll always be kind, or… or nice.”

You reached out to take his hand in yours again. “But,” you whispered, “I… I think I can promise that I’ll always try my best to keep getting better. I want to be better. And I know that this is… probably the _worst time_ —with Boucher, the inevitable investigation, with everything else that’s about to blow up in the bureau and in our careers—to have a kid, but… but… is it bad that I kind of… want this? With you? After… after the first time, after being so apathetic, I thought that something had truly fundamentally broken in me. I never really thought about ever having a… a family again. I didn’t think I had the capacity to really even love _anything_ or any _one_ . I thought Alexander had kind of… taken that from me. But you make life so much less frightening, Spencer. You make me less afraid of _myself_. I love you, Spencer—so much that it’s genuinely incomprehensible to me. So… so if this is something that you want, too, then…” You trailed off and let the implications of your words speak for themselves.

And that was it—your entire truth as you’d experienced it. Your entire self laid bare before Spencer. 

And for the first time, you were not afraid of vulnerability.

Especially not as Spencer slowly reached out to you and tugged you towards him. You followed his direction, gently straddling his outstretched legs. His left arm stayed where it was—gently resting on the mattress beside him—but his right hand came up to cradle your face. You leaned into his touch.

Then, as his lips slowly spread into a smile, he whispered, “Say it again.”

You breathed a laugh. “I love you, Spencer.”

“Again.”

You couldn’t fight the smile creeping onto your face, nor the tender heat spreading across your cheeks. “I love you.”

“One more time.”

And you tossed your head back as a laugh erupted from your chest. 

For the first time in your adult life, it did not burden you to be open to another person. It did not hurt you to have someone know the ugliest pieces of you. It did not scare you to love someone. 

You had spent so long believing that your ability to love had been stolen that you hadn’t even considered the possibility that just as the ability to love can be stolen, it can just as easily be reclaimed if only you dared to take it back.

And when you thought about Spencer, gazing at you like you were all he could ever ask of the world, you believed that you had finally found the courage to do so.

So you leaned forward, slowly putting your forehead against his. His eyes fluttered shut at the proximity, and after kissing him tenderly, you pulled but a hair’s breadth away and whispered, “I love you, Spencer, with all that I am and will ever be, until I’m nothing but a memory that echoes down the years into nothing, and for the eternity after that.”

“How poetic,” he breathed.

“Well, I _do love_ poetry,” you answered.

And, in the words of your favorite poem, you couldn’t help but think that you finally understood what it meant to have a “heart in port.” And it didn’t automatically negate all that raged inside you, and it didn’t take away the darkness that still festered within you. 

But you were starting to understand that you were not broken, nor were you fractured, nor were you incomplete. You were still entirely whole. You _were_ more than all that had happened to you, and you would continue to be more than what would happen to you in the future.

You knew this now. And for the first time in your entire life, you were not afraid of the possibility of healing. You were not afraid to let yourself be brave and happy. 

You were not afraid to _live_.

So you bridged the gap in between your lips to kiss him again—gently and slowly and like time had ticked to a halt.

And when Spencer pulled away just slightly, he whispered, “I love you. Completely and as you are. And I didn’t… I didn’t want to say anything, because I didn’t want you to feel obligated to act one way or another, but, uh…” He let out an incredulous laugh, his eyes bright, his smile wide. “I love kids. I’ve always wanted them. And if that’s genuinely what you want, too, then… we can figure it out as we go. I’ll go to the library tomorrow and read every parenting book there, probably within an hour. We can do this.”

“Yeah?”

He nodded. “Yeah, I think so.”

“Okay,” you whispered back, your own smile growing to match his. “Okay, then let’s do it.”

And Spencer’s grin only widened.

The two of you stared at each other for a moment before you dipped your head back down and pressed your lips against his again. His hand slid to the back of your head as your arms twined around his neck.

There was so much left to say, so much left to figure out, but for now, you decided that you could afford to put it off for a bit. To just live in this moment without thinking of the demons that still roared in the back of your mind or of the uncertain future looming over your heads.

You could afford to just _be_.

So you kissed him messily with a growing fervor, content to lose yourself in him as you had done so many times before.

But then he tried to shift his position on the mattress, leaning weight against his injured wrist, and he jerked back with a yelp of pain while smacking the back of his head against your headboard. He let out a strained groan.

“Oh, fuck, are you alright?” you asked.

His voice was tight as he answered, and he’d shut his eyes, his face going pale. “Yep. Yep. Just… give me a second.”

You sighed lightly and moved a hand to the back of his head, gently rubbing the afflicted area. “You know what… we’ve been awake for over thirty hours at this point.”

He cracked an eye open to look at you. “Do you want to go to sleep? It’d be a severe disruption in functional sleep habits, but…” He gently leaned his head back against the headboard and swallowed. “I’m also… exhausted.”

You breathed a laugh and kissed him one last time before slowly clambering off of him. You got off the bed to turn off the lights in the room and grabbed two extra pillows from your closet. 

“Keep your wrist elevated above your heart. It’ll help with swelling,” you said, stacking the pillows on top of each other.

He nodded before resting his left wrist on them and slowly sliding back to lie down. You followed suit, tucking yourself close to his side.

Within minutes, you were both drifting off.

But before he fell asleep completely, Spencer murmured, “I need to go to my apartment to pick up clothes.”

“I’ll take care of it,” you mumbled back.

And you both fell into a deep slumber.

And when you woke up several hours later, you saw that the sun had already set for the evening. Spencer was still fast asleep, and while the idea of just lying in bed with him was tempting, you slowly pulled yourself out of bed.

He didn’t so much as twitch, not even as you bent back down to smooth his hair from his forehead and leave a lingering kiss on his cheek.

Then you splashed cool water on your face, grabbed your coat, your purse, and his house keys from his messenger bag in your living room, and you quietly left your apartment.

He’d done so much for you. The least you could do was grab some of his things from his apartment.

Then you walked down and out to your car. As soon as you started driving, one of the unmarked cars stationed outside your apartment began tailing you. You rolled your eyes in the rearview mirror. 

You supposed that both you and Spencer had been assigned your own babysitters.

You arrived at Spencer’s building in a little under thirty minutes. You parked nearby, and the agent tailing you parked across the street. And just because you were feeling petty, you jogged up to the car and knocked on the driver’s side window.

The agent inside lowered her window. “Agent Y/L/N,” she greeted quietly, “can I help you?”

“No. I just wanted to say hi.”

“Oh… kay. Is that it?”

“Yeah, I’ll be back down in a few minutes.”

She nodded uncomfortably and rolled her window back up. And you laughed to yourself as you entered Spencer’s building.

You walked up the stairs to his apartment, unlocked the door, and walked in, shutting the door behind you. You tossed your coat onto the back of his couch and yawned.

And then you heard the familiar sound of a gun being cocked from behind you, and you froze. All levity drained from your body as you slowly lifted your hands up by your shoulders.

“It wasn’t supposed to be you,” a deep voice said.

And you swallowed as you slowly turned around to face him. “Hello, Alexander.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi! I'm back on campus and have started classes again, so updates might take a bit longer than usual. I'm sorry about that!
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter :) thank you for reading!


	35. ...And Death But Death

“What are you doing here?” you asked, your voice low and tense.

He scoffed at your question, and unlike every time he’d held a gun to you while being held hostage, his hand didn’t shake. His gun was aimed at you with purpose. Intent. “You broke your end of the deal. Figured I’d return the favor.”

“How’d you even find his apartment?”

“You’d be surprised what you can find in public records. Couldn’t find _your_ address, though. I wasn’t surprised about that in the slightest. You’d think the bureau would take down _any_ federal agent’s address, but…” He shrugged nonchalantly.

“So, what? You were going to kill Spencer to get back at me?” you ground out.

“That’s putting it simply, but yes,” he answered. He glared at you down the barrel of your gun. “But… you know, maybe this is better.”

You curled your fingers into fists. “Can I ask how you got out? You really pulled a Houdini on us.”

He smiled. “Aw, I thought you were supposed to be smart. Did you really think dad had a safehouse with only one way out?”

“Okay, congrats—you avoided the feds. You could probably figure out how to do it again from here. So if you’re going to kill me, just take the shot.”

The smile faded from his lips. He swallowed thickly. There was a slight tremor in his hand. His eyes narrowed.

“Well? I’m waiting.”

“Stop talking.”

You forced the scowl from your face and made your voice softer. You said, “Alex, you’re not going to kill me. You won’t. That’s not you.”

He let out a harsh laugh. “Try me.”

“I know that you’re better than this. My deal still stands. It’s going to be a long process to get Boucher indicted. You could make that so much faster. You could help _more_. You could free yourself. I can still get you into Witness Protection.”

And when he failed to answer, you took an agonizingly slow step forward. His other hand flew to the gun, and his finger moved to the trigger. You froze, opening your palms to him as if to say _okay_.

“I can still help you,” you reiterated.

“No, you can’t,” he said. “You have… you have _no idea_ what you did.”

“I gave you an _out_.”

“ _No_ , you _didn’t_ .” He swiped a hand down his face. His breathing picked up. “The… the entire mob _knows_ that Boucher won’t talk. Soon they’ll know that Dad and Leo are… are _dead_ .” He took a sharp breath, his face scrunching with grief for a moment before he continued, “So then who’s left to _talk_ ? If feds start cracking down on them, they will _know_ it’s me, and—” He let out a harsh bitter laugh. “ _No one_ takes kindly to a _snitch_ , least of all the _fucking_ mafia.”

“We can keep you sa—”

“Safe?” Another laugh. “Y/N, we are _everywhere_. We are every _one_. We are your waiters. Your attorneys. _Your fucking colleagues_. Boucher was _your_ _fucking_ _boss_ , and he’s already _in custody_.” His brows narrowed. “So if I say _anything_ , it does not matter if you put me in Witness Protection. It does not matter where you try to hide me. They will find me within the _week_. And if my only options are _that_ , a fate which, I’m sure you know from _personal experience_ is worse than death, or running the whole fucking thing myself…” He shrugged. “It’s an easy choice, Y/N.”

“I don’t remember you being such a _coward_.” you bit back.

His eyes flared. His hand tightened on his gun.

“So, tell me; _how_ are you going to run it?” you challenged. “You’re _personally_ going to oversee and partake in the deaths and _violation_ of countless young women? You can live with yourself if you do that? If you lead the rest of your life pretending like you’re not _better than that_ , when you and I _both_ know that you are?”

A muscle jumped in his jaw. “I’m not.”

“You _are_.”

You took a sharp breath and forced your voice level. You forced it into submission, into softness. You forced yourself to draw upon whatever lingering nostalgia you might have had for the once sweet boy you’d grown up with. 

You forced yourself to think back to innocent nights spent walking along the beach, to lavish events where the two of you danced together without care for anyone else in the room, to romantic intimate duets played side by side as Liszt and Debussy and Mendelsson bore witness to the gentlest form of love.

Because, as much as you wished you could deny it, that _was_ what it had been in the beginning. 

So you took a deep breath and softly said, “You know why I know? Because I loved you, Alex, as much as any teenage girl can love anything or anyone. Do you want to know _exactly_ the moment I knew that I loved you?”

He stayed silent.

You continued, “It was a month or two into dating. We were walking in Central Park. You were complaining about one of your finance classes—you _hated_ studying finance, remember?—and I told you to give me _one benefit_ to studying it, to focus on the _one_ good thing instead of how tedious the rest of it was. Do you remember what you said to me?”

Alexander shook his head. His grip was loosening on the gun.

“You said that you didn’t think that there was anything good about studying finance itself, _but_ that you weren’t planning on working in finance for the rest of your life, anyway. And when I asked you what you meant, you said that you were going to get to Wall Street, make enough money to be completely independent from your dad, and then leave to do something _good_ with it. You said you were going to make up for ‘things.’” 

You managed a smile despite the circumstance. “And you didn’t answer when I asked you what ‘things’ were, and I didn’t understand why you’d… why you’d want to be completely separated from your family. But I didn’t care to think about it too much because I just saw someone who cared enough about the world to one day try and make it better. You were a _good person_ , Alex. Deep down, you _still_ are. That’s why you won’t kill me, why you’re even letting me _speak_ , why you’re still _considering_ helping us. And you can still do the _good thing_.”

He was silent for several moments. You held your breath and waited.

You were almost there. 

Finally, he whispered, “I… can’t.” And when you opened your mouth to object, he cut you off. “You have no idea, Y/N.” His voice was hoarse and quietly tormented. “You have… even when we were together, I had to do… _terrible_ thin—”

“Then make up for it,” you cut him off firmly. “A bad person wouldn’t care. You do. You can still make up for it.”

And he went quiet again. The slight tremble was back in his hand. It looked like he was looking _through you_ rather than at you now. He opened his mouth to say something, and then—

Loud buzzing from your coat pocket, now on the couch behind you.

You squeezed your eyes shut.

_Fuck._

_Fuck, fuck, fuck_ —

You heard footsteps moving to your side, and when you opened your eyes, you saw Alexander standing to the side of Spencer’s couch. His face had hardened again, and his free hand had dug his own phone out of his pocket. “Answer it on speaker. If you say anything about this, I will send people to every single one of your teammates’ houses. And they’d _love_ an opportunity to go after actual feds.”

And though his voice was tense with distaste, though it was clear that he didn’t _want_ to do it, you also knew that he _would_ if he felt trapped. You weren’t willing to gamble with the lives of the BAU.

So you slowly turned to face the couch, keeping your hands in the air, before lowering one into the pocket of your coat. 

You took out your phone and stared at the screen:

 _Incoming Call: Spencer Reid_.

Your eyes flickered to Alexander, and you swallowed as you accepted the call, putting it on speaker. “Hi, Spencer,” you said as evenly as you could.

“ _Hey, where did you go?_ ” His voice was still slightly rough with sleep.

“I’m at your apartment. I was just going to pick up some clothes for you while you were still out. I stole your keys from your bag. Sorry about that.”

You could hear the smile in his voice as he answered, “ _It’s fine, but you really didn’t have to do that. I would have done it tomorrow after going to the library._ ”

“I wanted to,” you assured him. “Besides, you’re injured. I didn’t want you carrying anything extra. I’ll be back soon, okay?”

“ _Okay. While you’re out, I’m going to go to the drug store around the corner. It just dawned on me that you should start taking prenatal vitamins—_ ”

Alexander’s eyes widened, and you shut yours tightly.

“ _I don’t know if you have a brand preference, but there are three key vitamins that will be essential for a strong and healthy fetal development. I’m not entirely certain the brand matters so long as there are adequate amounts of folic acid, calcium, and iron—among other vitamins that would be helpful, of course_.”

And Spencer kept talking, rambling off about why each vitamin was necessary, but you weren’t paying attention any longer. You could feel Alexander’s piercing stare boring through you.

You paid him no mind. You were too busy trying to figure out how to get a message to Spencer. _Now_.

You opened your eyes and avoided Alexander, scanning across the room for _something_ that might inspire a discrete message. But from where you faced, all you saw were his windows and a few miscellaneous piles of books strewn about the living space.

But then your eye caught something on the coffee table, something you hadn’t noticed at first because it was half covered by an encyclopedia.

It was the binder you’d given him for Christmas—the poetry anthology you’d created about time.

And suddenly, all those years of reading and rereading your mother’s collection of Dickinson poems were paying off. You found your answer.

So you cut Spencer off, “You know what; I trust you. Get whichever one you want.” You intentionally let some of the strain show through in your voice.

In your peripheral vision, you saw Alexander’s grip tighten on his phone—a subtle threat in response to your vocal change. 

He paused for a second. “ _Is everything alright?_ ” he asked. “ _I’m sorry if I overwhelmed you. I_ —”

“No, no, it’s not that,” you breezed, easing back into neutrality. “I was just…” You huffed a laugh. “I found _your_ copy of Emily Dickinson poems, and I couldn’t help but look through it. You called when I was in the middle of my favorite: poem 764. Every time I read it now, I think about you, and when you read it to me when I was sick. I just got a little… emotional. Probably the hormones, or something.”

And he paused again, for just a half second longer than the last time, and you had to fight the relief from showing through on your face.

Emily Dickinson rarely actually titled her poems. The majority of them were known by either their first line or their chronological number.

And poem 764 was certainly not your favorite poem.

Spencer would know that, just as he would know automatically that poem 764 was more commonly known as “My Life had stood - a loaded gun.”

And it was enough to convey your situation.

“ _Oh_ ,” he said after a beat of silence. His voice was _slightly_ tighter, now—not enough that Alexander would notice, but enough that you could tell he understood. “ _Well… if you enjoyed it, I can read to you again tonight when you get back_.”

“That sounds wonderful. I’m looking forward to it.”

“ _Great. I’ll see you soon._ ”

“I’ll see you soon. And—hey, Spencer?”

Another brief pause. “ _Yes?_ ”

You smiled softly despite yourself. “I forgot to tell you earlier, but that night after the bar, you asked me what made me happy, and I didn’t have an answer for you. Remember?”

“ _I remember, yes_.”

Alexander signalled to you to wrap up the conversation. His face was tense with impatience. You ignored him.

“I just realized that I have an answer for you now.” You breathed a laugh into the phone. “It’s you. It’s always been you, even before that night. I just wanted to let you know.”

You knew that the agent downstairs wouldn’t be able to do anything without putting you in jeopardy once Spencer inevitably called her. You were stuck waiting for the team.

You’d just wanted to say that just in case Alexander decided to make good on his threats. Just in case the team didn’t get there in time. Just in case you couldn’t disarm him.

You just wanted the last real thing you might say to him to be a truth, and not a ploy to get a message across. Just in case.

“ _That makes two of us, then. I love you. I’ll see you soon_.”

“I love you, too. See you soon.”

And you ended the call.

Alexander stared at you for a few beats as he slowly slid his phone back into his pocket. You dropped your phone back down onto the couch and slowly turned to face him.

Both of you were silent for several moments.

Then, he quietly asked, “You’re pregnant?”

You nodded.

“Wh… how… how long?”

“That’s irreleva—”

“Answer my question.”

You sighed. “Five to six weeks. I’m not certain.”

Grief flashed across his face again.

And you softened. “Alex,” you began, “you told me you were happy that I had someone in my life like that. And I’m… I want a future that isn’t dictated by my past anymore. It’s the same as what you want. All you have to do is put the gun down, and we can help you. I swear.”

His eyes narrowed. “I _want_ to believe you, Y/N,” he answered tersely. “I _do_ . But you also swore that you’d leave Dad and Leo out of it. That you’d _help them_ , too. And, in your words, you lied.”

Your eyes fluttered shut with frustration. “You couldn’t… you couldn’t have expected me to be okay with letting them off easy.”

“I didn’t, but I also didn’t expect you to _kill them_ .” He let out an incredulous laugh, barely masking the pain of that loss. “You _killed_ my _father_ . And I’ll credit you with Leo’s death too considering that you aimed for him _first_.”

“And they killed my _sister_ and my _parents_ ,” you challenged back. “And unlike me, Leo did not give them a courtesy of a swift death.”

“I—” He took a sharp breath. “I _told you_ , it wasn’t—”

“—Supposed to happen like that,” you cut him off. “That is _not_ the comfort you think it is.” Then, you let out an exasperated huff. “Alex, they treated you like shit. They _always_ have. You said it yourself; they didn’t give you a _choice_ . They _stole_ your life from you. I—”

“It _amazes me_ that you think that your parents were such _saints_ in comparison.”

That threw you off. You froze. “What… what are you talking about?” 

And a slow mirthless smile crept onto his face. “My father was Samuel’s cousin. You know that story that Samuel used to say, about how he met Victor in law school? A lie to cover up legitimate relations. Samuel only introduced your father to Victor because they were… like minded, I suppose.”

You knew that you should feign disinterest. That you should change the topic. That you needed to go back on the offense, but you couldn’t force any words from your mouth.

And at the look of shock on your face that you couldn’t cover up, Alexander breathed a humorless laugh. “Your father was Samuel’s longest friend. You don’t seriously think he was ignorant to Samuel’s other responsibilities, do you? _He_ was the one who came up with the idea of starting The Monet Society. And your mother, of course, was _aware_ of its real origins and purpose. She wasn’t as big of a fan, but she looked the other way. Or so that’s what my dad told me, anyway. I don’t think he had much of a reason to lie about these things.”

You could barely hear over the blood that was beginning to roar in your ears.

That couldn’t be possible.

Alexander had to be lying—just to get to you. To throw you off your game.

“Then why’d Boucher approve the kill order?” you asked harshly. “Do you _really_ think I’m—”

“Because of you,” he answered quickly. “Everything _was_ always about you, wasn’t it?”

And you felt your blood freeze over. 

He continued, “Boucher wanted you to join us when you turned eighteen. You were just so _smart_ ; he wanted to make you the next leader.” His face finally fell again, and he cleared his throat. “I was against it, obviously. Dad cared about you too much, too, to drag you into this. But Leo…” Alexander shook his head. “Leo _hated_ you for it. He hated you because _he_ wanted to be the next leader. And you might have thought me to be an overbearing asshole after… after he killed your family, but I was trying to protect you from _that_.”

Then he shrugged. “And your father was… not as big of a fan of the idea. And once your _mother_ found out, well… who do you think brought us to the FBI’s attention? Who do you think came up with that operation to try and take us out?”

You clenched your jaw. “Stop talking,” you demanded through gritted teeth. You could feel a paradox of both rage and _nothing_ taking over your body. Something within you was bending to the point of breaking.

It wasn’t true.

He was lying.

They hadn’t been a part of the mafia. They _hadn’t_.

Alexander ignored you. “They were just as bad, and they wanted to get out without consequence. They wanted to take us down so that _you’d_ never have the chance to get involved. So they crossed us. And they had to pay for it.”

“ _Stop_ . _Now_.” Your body was going numb. You could hardly hear him speaking over the static that steadily grew louder and louder in your mind.

“So, in a way,” he continued, “I guess it _was_ kind of your fault. If you hadn’t been born, maybe they’d still be alive. Who knows.”

You knew what he was doing. He wanted you to give him a reason to shoot. He wanted to be able to justify killing you to himself.

He wouldn’t do it if it wasn’t in self-defense.

So you knew he wouldn’t shoot you so long as you stayed placid.

But though you knew that, all of your training sunk deep into a recess of your mind. Every negotiation tactic, every fact you knew about him, everything you might have used to try and talk your way out faded to nothing.

And in a venomous tone, you quietly said, “I can’t blame Boucher for looking outside the family for his successor. You and Leo normally would have been the first options, but when the first choice is a fucking psychopath, and the second is… _you_ …” You shrugged as you glared at him, and he stiffened at your taunt. “I wouldn’t be too hopeful about those prospects, either.” 

You took a slow step towards him. He tightened his grip on his gun, and you ignored him and took another step.

He took one back. “Stop moving,” he warned.

You stopped, but you continued talking, “At least I can say that my parents died knowing that I at least achieved something. That I was such a source of pride that they risked their own lives.” You tilted your head to the side. “Do you think Victor would have tried to take a bullet for _you_ like he did for Leo?”

His eyes flared, and his cheeks grew red. 

“He was always the favorite, wasn’t he?” You clicked your tongue against your teeth. “You know what, Alex. I _did_ love you. I really did. But I always wondered if I was the only person who ever did.”

And his eyes shut tight for _just_ a moment as your words landed, and you launched yourself at him.

You grabbed his wrist just as he realized his error, and you pushed it up as he pulled the trigger. A gunshot echoed throughout the room. Plaster rained down.

Alexander might have had a physical advantage on you, but combat training was ingrained into your every move. 

So as you both struggled to grab hold of the gun, you let go just long enough for him to stumble back. You swept your feet under his leg, and he tumbled back to the ground.

The gun flew out of his hand and skidded across the room.

You dashed for it, but he grabbed your foot, and you fell forward with a shout of frustration. You turned onto your back just as he came over you on his hands and knees to try and pin you to the ground. But you had more energy now than you did in the safehouse, so when his hands aimed for your throat again, you hooked your foot on the outside of his calf and slammed your hips up to knock him off of you just as you jammed your elbow against the side of his face.

He fell to the side, and you scrambled to your feet, just narrowly avoiding his grip again. You felt nothing as you sprinted for the gun and picked it off the ground, turning to shoot at Alexander just as he came up to your side and shoved you away.

Your finger pulled the trigger as your hands tightened around the gun in surprise, and another gunshot rang out in the room. You didn’t see where it ended up, but you knew that it hadn’t hit Alexander.

You stumbled, desperately trying to keep your grip on the weapon, but your head smacked into the wall. Your eyes instinctually shut as your vision went dark for a second.

And he pinned you against the wall with the side of his body. His hands grabbed yours and tried to pry the gun from you. You slammed your heel into the arch of his foot, and he barked a curse as he staggered back, not letting go of you for a second, but giving you enough room to get out from beside the wall so he couldn’t trap you against it again.

He spun you around—literally trying to _shake you_ off—but you held on and dug your feet into the ground.

And suddenly, your bodies were pressed together as you tried to rip the gun from the others’ grip. You couldn’t tell where your arms began and where his ended. The end of the gun pointed this way and that, towards you and towards him. You tried to knee him in the groin, but the angle was off. He twisted to the side. His hands tightened around yours, forcing yours to tighten their grip as well. He jerked you to the side, and you squeezed harder.

And the gun went off.

And both of you froze.

You weren’t entirely sure who had pulled the trigger—if you had wedged your finger back into the trigger guard and pulled it unintentionally, if he had managed to pull it, if somehow in the fray you’d both done it.

But it didn’t matter.

You staggered backwards a few steps, staring wide eyed at Alexander.

And he stared back, panting, his jaw slack with shock.

You lifted your right hand to your chest and pressed just to the left of your sternum. You looked down at your hand.

Your fingers were covered in blood.

You tried to take a breath, but you choked. And when you coughed, you felt blood dripping from your lips and down your chin.

And suddenly, you couldn’t stand. Your knees buckled from under you, and you collapsed onto your back with a shuddering gasp.

You were vaguely aware of the feeling of blood soaking your shirt, and somewhere in the back of your mind, you registered acute and unbearable pain.

But you also didn’t feel anything. You felt warm. And cold. And heavy. And light.

And when you managed to dart your eyes back to Alexander, now standing over you with the gun hanging loosely in his hand by his side, you saw a flash of regret. Of grief. Of sorrow.

And then he shut his eyes and lifted the gun, pointing the end of the barrel at your head.

You managed to gasp, “D-don’t,” just as another wave of blood flooded up from your mouth. You choked, sputtering to try and get it out.

Alexander hesitated.

And the door flew open to reveal the agent who’d been assigned to you. “ _FBI!_ ” she bellowed. “ _Drop your weapon_!”

That snapped Alexander out of whatever trance he’d been in. He fired at the agent as he dove behind Spencer’s couch. The gunfire sounded so far away.

You were barely able to make out the agent’s instruction into an earpiece: “ _I need backup and medical, now! Agent dow_ —” And then a cry of pain.

You didn’t expect Alexander to even be a decent shot. But you supposed you didn’t know him as well as you once thought you had. 

You heard him sprint from the room as you struggled for breath. You desperately ran through human anatomy in your mind, trying to calculate your chances of survival and pinpoint where exactly you’d been shot. Your lung was punctured—that much was obvious—but… 

You couldn’t feel the wound at _all_ anymore.

And you didn’t feel cold—just warm.

You didn’t feel light—just heavy, like you were being pressed into the floor by some otherworldly force.

Your eyelids drooped. You forced them open.

You had to _stay awake_. You forced whatever left of your mind you still had control over away from the thought of anatomy and survival and tried to steer it towards something better—towards all of the reasons you needed to be alive.

But you couldn’t think of anything aside from what Alexander had said.

He was lying. Your parents couldn’t have helped murder and traffic and violate those young girls, not when they had two of their own so similar to the girls whose futures were robbed from them. They couldn’t have partaken in such vile crime while pretending to want to _save_ others. They couldn’t have.

Because if Boucher _really did_ approve the order, if they tried to get out _just_ to try and keep you away from them, then… then…

You gasped again as a tear slid down the side of your face.

You supposed that if you died, you’d never uncover the truth.

So you had to stay awake. You knew you had to stay awake. 

And you managed to stay awake just long enough to hear sirens wailing in the distance. It wouldn’t be much longer, now. You could keep your eyes open.

But the world grew heavy, every air molecule around you pressing down, down, down on your body. You were losing your battle with your eyelids. 

And so, as your vitality poured from your chest and leaked onto the floor, as your breathing grew shallow, as you felt yourself fading into that quiet darkness, you closed your eyes and succumbed to humanity’s most indulgent pleasure: you fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know how to write fight scenes, so I'm sorry if their fighting sequence was incoherent. The next update might take a few extra days, too. I'm busy all weekend and I'm swamped with homework and assignments already, so i'm sorry about that! :(
> 
> As always, thank you for reading!
> 
> EDIT 2/14/21: the next update is coming I promise. My laptop broke and the chapter is on the longer side so it’s been a bit of an issue getting it written. I’m so sorry for the delay!


	36. Death Is A Dialogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for how long this took! I’ve been so overwhelmingly busy with school these past two weeks, and then my laptop broke out of nowhere a few days ago. Much of this chapter was written on an iPad that hasn’t been updated since I was in high school. I’m so sorry if there’s an issue with the formatting, or more errors than usual in the chapter. I promise that as soon as my laptop is fixed, I’ll go through and fix everything. I just wanted to get this chapter out at long last!

You were everything and nothing at once, floating in a void that knew neither light nor darkness. You were between the first breath of life and the final sigh of death, the song of sparrows at sunrise and the howling of wolves at midnight, the beginning of destruction and the end of creation. 

And, cradled by the paradox of this space, you found yourself drifting into that final goodnight. 

This, you thought, was finally peace.

So you closed your eyes and sighed as you let the void take you to your next path.

And when you opened them again, you were in a familiar house. It was daytime. The sun was streaming in through the wall of windows.

You blinked against the harsh rays.

Then you turned to the right and caught your reflection on a decorative mirror on the wall. You looked… young. Your teenage self stared back at you—happy, unburdened, bright. You were dressed casually in a white t-shirt that said “Columbia University: Class of 2000” in light blue letters, and gray cloth shorts.

The elegant chime of a familiar laughter echoed through the house, and you looked to your left to find the source.

Your breath caught in your throat.

Your dad was at the stove, sautéing something green with a kitchen towel slung over his shoulder. He had a spatula in his right hand, and a glass of red wine in his left. Sitting at one of the island stools was your mom.

The quiet patter of feet crescendoed up the other hallway, and you saw a childhood version of yourself sprint up to the kitchen island, an even younger Lizzy running right behind.

You said something that made your mom grin, and she patted her lap. Lizzy happily lifted her arms up for your mother to pick her up, and you climbed your way onto the stool beside her. Then your father turned to you and held a spoon to your lips. You tried whatever he fed you, clapping your hands with delight.

Your father said something to the three of you—or… you _thought_ he did. You didn’t hear anything when he opened his mouth—but your mom laughed in response nonetheless. So in love. So at ease. So _happy_.

You were all so _happy_.

And suddenly, all your previous concerns and questions melted away.

How could two people like that ever have been affiliated with a mafia?

You knew Alex had been lying.

So you smiled and took a step towards them.

And then you felt a hand grab your arm and yank you back. You stumbled backwards, around the corner and into the living room with a surprised gasp, but you kept your eyes forward and tugged against the force.

“What are you doing?” a girlish voice asked.

You froze, slowly turning around to face whoever had tried to detain you. You knew that voice. You loved that voice. “Oh my god,” you whispered.

 _Your_ voice—higher pitched in its adolescence. It shocked you even to hear. 

But what shocked you most was how Lizzy stared back at you with one brow arched. Even though she should have been in her thirties, she looked just as she did at sixteen, and she was wearing an unzipped bright red hoodie with a grey camisole underneath and black cloth shorts. Her hair was tied back into a ponytail.

And there was an angry red scar that went across her throat, from one ear to the other.

You reached out to touch it.

She swatted your hand away. “Ew, stop being weird.”

“I… what… where…” you fumbled.

Lizzy let out an annoyed huff and grabbed your arm again. “Come on. You’re not supposed to be here.” She tried to tug you away from the kitchen again.

But you pulled back. “Lizzy, stop.”

She paused and looked back at you, raising both her brows. “What?”

“It… Mom and Dad are that way,” you answered, gesturing behind you. 

Your mother’s delicate laugh filtered in from the kitchen again, and you couldn’t help but look over your shoulder and smile. 

“Let’s go over there.” You tried to take a step backwards, but Lizzy held fast to your arm.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, what?” she asked. “You can’t be… that’s not _real_ , Y/N?”

You poked your head back around the corner to look back into the kitchen. Your dad was refilling your mom’s glass, and he bent down to give her a kiss on the cheek. You smiled again.

“ _Hey!_ ” Lizzy clapped her hands in your face, and you jerked back. 

“ _What_?” 

She looked at you with her mouth half open, eyes flickering between you and the kitchen. “You…” Lizzy huffed an incredulous laugh. “Are you honestly trying to tell me that you remember us like… _that_?”

“What do you mean remem—”

“Y/N, Mom and Dad didn’t love us like _that_. They barely loved _each other_. _That’s—_ ” She pointed to the kitchen. “—not real.”

You blinked a few times at her. Somewhere in the back of your mind, her words registered with something deep repressed.

You shook your head. “No… no, they didn’t. You’re wrong,” you murmured. “They were good. We were good. We were happy.”

Suddenly, the sunlight dissipated. The house became cold. The sounds in the kitchen ceased completely.

Lizzy scoffed, “They paraded you around like a show horse. We’ve _talked about this_ before.”

You swallowed thickly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. They loved us.”

“They loved how you made them look.”

“ _No_ , they _didn’t_.”

“What are you…” Lizzy trailed off. She tilted her head to the side slightly as she furrowed her brows. “Why are you so insistent on this?”

“Because that’s the truth,” you answered plainly. “I want… I want to be here with you. And them.” Tears started welling in your eyes, and you had to continue speaking through the lump in your throat. “I’ve missed you so much.”

And Lizzy just stared at you. Studied you. Then she let out a sigh and said, “Can I show you something?” 

You didn’t answer, even as she held out a hand for you to take.

After several moments, you placed your hand in hers. You took a deep breath. “What are you showing me?” you asked softly.

She hummed as she gently tugged you along, down into the living room, across the entry hall, and to the stairs. “Reality,” she said. She stood a few steps above you, and she craned her head around to look down at you. “Do you trust me?”

You hesitated, daring a glance down the hall and to what you could see of the kitchen. It had grown lifeless.

So you looked back up at her and slowly nodded. Lizzy smiled. She tugged on your hand again, and you followed her up the stairs, into the dark hallway of the second floor, crossing into a different world.

***

Spencer arrived at his apartment building precisely four minutes and fourteen seconds after he received a call from Derek that he’d gotten onto the scene.

It was 9:12pm when he called you to inquire about your whereabouts.

And it was 9:16pm when he sprinted out of your apartment, down the stairs, and to the agent sitting idly across the street while calling Garcia so she could contact the rest of them.

And now it was 9:52pm, and he had come to the conclusion that if he were to eradicate the world of _anything_ , it would be slow drivers and traffic.

He launched himself out of the car before the agent had even fully come to a stop.

Outside of the building, he saw his neighbors all gathered across the street in a clump with a few agents standing by. An ambulance without an EMT in sight sat with its cabin open and turned towards the building entrance. There were several police cars and bureau issued SUVs spread out across the street.

The world was a blur of flashing red and blue lights.

Then he spotted Derek, Preston, and Hotch standing by the entrance. Hotch was speaking rapidly to a few agents and several police officers, and Derek had his arms open in front of him, blocking Preston from entering the building.

Preston shoved at Derek, his face red with frustration.

Derek put his hands on Preston’s shoulders and shoved him back, yelling, “ _Back up, Preston_!”

But Spencer paid all three of them little mind as he sprinted towards the entrance, moving to shove through the crowd of agents and officers and to run into the building.

Immediately, Derek was standing in front of him with his arms out. “Reid, Reid, you can’t go in.”

Like hell he couldn’t. It was his apartment.

“Where is she?” Spencer demanded.

Derek’s hesitation told him enough. He tried to shove past his friend, only for Derek’s arms to wrap around him and hold him back. “They’re bringing her down,” he answered through gritted teeth.

And that was enough to make Spencer’s blood freeze in his veins. “What do you—”

And then he saw it.

Or, more specifically, he saw _you_ —doused in your own blood, strapped down to a stretcher, surrounded by three EMTs rushing you out of the building. One of them held a bag-valve mask to your face. Another was relaying information into a device strapped to her shirt.

_Female. Thirty-three. Thoracic gunshot wound. Unresponsive. Other injuries currently unknown. Severe blood loss. Need a trauma team upon arrival. Prep an OR for emergency surgery._

Time slowed for Spencer. He was vaguely aware of Derek calling his name. He no longer felt the winter chill seeping down to his bones, as he hadn’t bothered to grab a coat and was still in his pajamas. He barely even recognized his own heart rate steadily growing faster in his chest.

And as they ever so slowly rushed past him and Derek, Spencer whispered, “She’s pregnant,” as if in addendum to the rest of that information.

He felt Derek stiffen beside him. “What did you say?”

And suddenly, the world sped up again, and Spencer dashed off with the EMTs. “She’s _pregnant_ ,” he repeated, this time louder.

The EMT pushing the stretcher from the back whipped his head around and stared at Spencer with wide eyes.

Behind him, Spencer heard Hotch order Preston to go with him to the hospital with you. Preston tried to protest, saying he wanted to hunt down Alexander, but Hotch offered a firm “Both of you are useless to me right now. Go to the hospital,” before striding into the building.

The EMT relayed the information to the two others loading you into the cabin. The woman who’d been speaking into her communication device swore under her breath before telling whoever waited on the other line that you were also pregnant.

“What are your relations to the patient?” she asked as Spencer and Preston both clambered into the cabin and slammed the door shut. Without even looking, she took over control of the bag-valve mask, squeezing oxygen into your body while the third EMT rapidly began cutting off your shirt to assess your wound up close. The other EMT began hooking an array of cords and wires to your body before sticking an IV attached to a bag of O negative blood into your arm. 

The ambulance cabin came to life with rapid beeping as it raced down the street.

“I’m—she’s—” Spencer tried to relay anything useful to her, but he couldn’t take his eyes off of you.

“Teammates,” Preston answered weakly.

“Blood pressure is dropping further,” the EMT manning your vitals announced.

“Left lung is completely compromised,” the EMT by your side interrupted. “There’s too much pressure in her chest cavity; she’s suffocating. I have to unpack the wou—”

You made a brief choking sound before a torrent of blood exploded from your mouth and into the bag-valve. Your body involuntarily convulsed once before going still again.

The EMT who’d been trying to get information from Spencer and Preston dropped the bag-valve to the ground and turned her head to you. She swore under her breath. “Start tracheal intubation, _now_ ,” she demanded. 

And as the two other EMTs frantically began following that instruction, the one standing beside Spencer and Preston turned back to them.

“Agents, please,” she began, “We’ll be at the hospital in less than two minutes. I need information. How far along in her pregnancy is she?”

Spencer opened his mouth to answer, but his gaze was fixed on you and on the two EMTs desperately trying to guide a tube down your throat.

He knew you weren’t, but you looked dead.

And he _knew_ that someone could live without a lung. He knew that if that were the only issue, you’d be alright.

But his brain had come to a standstill. He couldn’t recall the statistics for dying from pneumothorax alone. He couldn’t estimate how much blood you’d already lost. He couldn’t figure out how much blood and air was filling your chest cavity, forcing your heart to beat even slower than it would with just blood loss. He couldn’t think of _anything_.

Spencer was paralyzed. Useless.

Preston suddenly grabbed him by the collar of his thin t-shirt, forcing Spencer to look him in the eye, and hissed, “ _Answer. Her. Question_.”

And that was enough for Spencer to snap out of it. He managed to croak out, “Fi—six? Six weeks.”

The EMT relayed that information into her communication device.

And then several alarms started going off in the ambulance.

The EMT looking at your vitals announced, “She’s crashing.”

“ _Shit_ ,” the third one mumbled under her breath. She quickly dove into her bag and pulled out a scalpel and a thin tube. “Starting thoracostomy to relieve more pressure.”

So Spencer could do nothing but watch as the EMTs desperately tried to pull you back. 

Beside him, Spencer could hear Preston mumble under his breath, “C’mon, sweetheart. C’mon.” His fingers were now laced behind his neck.

Then, after what seemed like an eternity but was only forty-five seconds, the ambulance _finally_ arrived at the hospital, you were quickly whisked away before he had the chance to even _think_ about this reality.

But when Spencer and Preston were standing side-by-side in front of a receptionist who forbade them from following your battered body down the hall to the operation room, it finally hit him.

Preston let out a string of quiet expletives and ran his hands down his face. He sloppily punched the air, desperate to burn off the frustration and fear coursing through his veins. Then he turned on his heel, and began pacing through the waiting room.

The only other people in the room were an elderly couple.

They tracked Preston with their eyes as he walked back and forth, digging the heels of his palms into his eyes.

And Spencer just stood by that door, frozen in his spot.

Spencer thought he’d known fear before.

He had thought he’d felt it when Tobias Hankle kidnapped him and drugged him while forcing him to choose Tobias’ next victims.

He had thought he’d felt it when he walked into Dr. Lawrence Nichols’ lab and unknowingly exposed himself to anthrax, believing that he would be dead by the end of the day.

And he had thought he’d felt it when he learned that Maeve had been kidnapped. When he’d seen her for the first time tied to a chair—her eyes wide with fear, her brows narrowed with a determination to survive. When he’d watched her die right in front of him.

Spencer had thought he’d grown to understand fear. That it would never leave him disadvantaged again. That it would only make him sharper now that he’d experienced the worst of it.

But in that waiting room, Spencer learned what true fear was. 

True fear was not knowing whether he’d still have a family—a concept that was still so foreign in his mind—come tomorrow. Whether he’d ever get to meet the child he loved with all his heart already. Whether he’d get to tell you he loved you again because he hadn’t said it nearly as many times as he wanted to in his life.

He wanted to be able to tell you he loved you every morning when you woke beside him, and every night when you fell asleep in the same place, and every hour in between. And even then, it didn’t seem adequate to fully express what you meant to him.

Now, he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to do that.

And the worst part was that he couldn’t do a thing about it but wait.

***

Lizzy opened a door, and the two of you stepped into your childhood bedroom in Manhattan.

On the far wall, there was a bay window overlooking the East River. The wall to the left held a desk with a built-in bookshelf on top—already overflowing with books—and a full length mirror beside it. Bordering either side of them were two doors that connected to the same walk-in closet. The right wall had a queen size canopy bed with a nightstand on either side of it, and just off the back wall, there was a white door that led to a connected bathroom.

On the nightstand closest to you, the hand of your old alarm clock clicked to 2am.

You were standing in the doorway, and you tugged on Lizzy’s hand. “What are we—”

A rustling on the bed cut you off.

Then there was a childish huff before your younger self sat up with a pout. 

And then you noticed the other noise—quiet, hushed arguing coming from down the hall in the kitchen. A distant memory told you that it wasn’t the chatter that had woken you up; you’d just never fallen asleep.

And you remembered that you’d always had trouble sleeping, even as a child.

Your younger self crawled to the edge of the bed and carefully lowered herself down, her too-long pajama pants dragging on the floor as she turned. She looked past you and Lizzy and started heading towards the door. 

You stepped out of her way.

She glanced towards the noise before crossing the hall and opening an already cracked door. The faint light from the kitchen that barely illuminated the hall filtered into the new room.

Your young self stuck her head in and was met with soft snores.

From behind you, Lizzy clicked her tongue against her teeth. “Ugh, I was a mouth-breather. Gross.”

And you realized that your younger self was checking on Lizzy—to see if she was woken up by your parents’ conversation.

As if reading your thoughts, Lizzy walked by you and leaned against the opposite wall of the hall. She twisted her head to peer into the room, and her face softened at the sight of her younger self, still sleeping soundly. “You were always doing that, remember? Checking up on me. Ever since we were kids, and especially if it had to do with Mom and Dad.”

You didn’t respond.

You watched as your childhood self huffed under her breath again and turned on her heel, silently jogging down the hall and towards the light. 

You and Lizzy followed her as she pressed her back against the wall at the end of the hallway and craned her head around the corner, spying in on the kitchen. Even as you got closer, your parents’ voices stayed muffled.

“What am I doing?” you asked quietly.

“Just listen.”

So you sighed and shut your eyes, running a hand down your face. “Fine,” you whispered.

Slowly, the voices of your parents became clear.

There was a clatter, like someone had roughly tried to clear a surface. “We have two _daughters_ ,” your mother hissed. 

“And Victor has two boys,” your father answered evenly.

She barked a quiet and harsh laugh. “It’s _disgusting_ that you can be so aloof about it. Imagine it was—”

Your father slammed his hand down onto the granite countertop in the kitchen. Your young self jumped. “Do _not_ finish that sentence.”

“Why not? I think it’s fair to ask if Victor and Samuel get bored one day? What if they decide _our girls_ would fetch them a fair price?”

“They would never.”

“But they could.” Your mother scraped her chair against the floor and walked across the kitchen. She stopped when she stood toe-to-toe with your father. “ _You_ are helping them steal and sell Y/N and Elizabeth over, and over, and _over_ again.”

“And yet you do nothing about it but _bitch_ to me. If you care _so much_ , if you _really_ think it’s a problem, why haven’t you gone to the bureau?”

Silence.

Your father let out a bitter laugh. “That’s what I thought. You care more about your career than your supposed sense of morality. You _still_ reap the benefits of the work I do that you claim to despise. That puts you in the _exact same spot_ as us.”

“It doesn’t.”

“Oh, it _does_.” 

Another beat of silence.

Then, quietly, your mother said, “And what happens when the girls find out?”

“They’re _kids_. It’s not a concern at the moment.”

Your mother scoffed, “Have you forgotten that one of your daughters is a _genius_ ? A _legitimate_ genius. She’s _six_ and starting to learn elementary _calculus_ , which you’d know if you ever bothered to read her tutor reports. By ten, she’ll probably have figured out _exactly_ what you—” 

And that was when your younger self had seemingly had enough.

She stepped out from around the corner and walked into the kitchen. Your mother snapped her mouth shut and stepped away from your father, and when you looked at her now, you noticed that her eyes were rimmed with red. A scowl was etched onto your father’s face, but he rubbed a hand against the stubble growing along his jaw and tried to soften it.

“Why are you awake?” you mother asked you after clearing her throat. “Did Margot not put you to bed before she went to sleep?”

Margot was an au pair from France and a family friend of the Marseilles that watched you and Lizzy. She lived with your family until she returned home just after you’d turned thirteen.

Your parents were rarely home during the day, and for her own job, your mother often traveled between New York and DC. It was rare that they were even in the same room at the same time when they weren’t attending social events in the city or hosting parties in your apartment. You remembered that as you got older, they began spending more time with the two of you, but…

But you seemed to remember it now differently than you had.

You remembered them attending more events, always eager to bring you and Lizzy with them, just to drag you around the room with them, introducing you to countless people of influence.

 _“This is our oldest_ ,” they’d say with fake grins before rattling off your list of achievements.

And you’d smile and graciously accept praise from whichever stranger to whom they showed you off next.

You didn’t find that odd until Lizzy made a comment about it, just a few months before her death. 

As if reading your thoughts, Lizzy reached out to you and took your hand in hers, squeezing. You didn’t look over at her or squeeze back.

You ignored the sudden surge of memories and focused on the scene before you.

Your childhood self nodded her head. “No, she did,” she said. “I just can’t sleep. Can you read to me, Momma?”

Your mother’s eyes softened. “You’re too smart for that. You can read more than fine by yourself.”

“It’s not the same. I like it better when you do it.”

Your father rolled his eyes, and under his breath, he said, “Just read her a god damned poem so she goes to bed.”

You remembered pretending that his words didn’t sting.

You remembered pretending a lot of things didn’t sting when you were growing up.

Your mother’s eyes fell shut, and she let out a heavy sigh, briefly burying her face into her hands before dragging them down her face and walking towards you. “Okay,” she breathed, “just this once.”

She took your younger self’s tiny hand in hers as she reached out for her.

And you and Lizzy watched as the pair descended back down the hallway and into your bedroom.

Then, as the scene slowly began to fade back into nothing, Lizzy tugged on your hand again. “C’mon,” she said, “there’s something else I want to show you.”

She didn’t wait for you to respond before she dragged you in the opposite direction to a different door. She opened it and pulled you through with her, and the two of you tumbled into another distant memory.

***

Four hours and twenty-one minutes had passed without a concrete update.

Four hours and twenty-one minutes had passed since Spencer had last seen you, without so much as a “surgery’s going well” to alleviate some of the fear that rendered Spencer utterly useless.

 _Four hours and twenty-one minutes_.

A nurse would walk by every now and then, and Spencer would shoot up from his seat every time to demand an update. The response he received was the same every time: a rehearsed sympathetic nod of the head along with an “it’s too early to tell” or an “it’s touch and go” or sometimes even a “I’ll update you as soon as the surgeons give us something definitive.”

And in the last four hours and twenty-one minutes, the rest of the BAU slowly trickled into the waiting room for an update. JJ, Emily, Penelope, and Derek all sat together in the corner talking in quiet murmurs, occasionally glancing over at Spencer. 

Spencer didn’t particularly care for what they had to say. It was hard to hear much above his racing thoughts, the buzz of fluorescent lights above him, and the occasional chatter of hospital personnel. 

Hotch and Rossi sat across from each other—the former going between scrolling through his emails and messages on his phone, and bombarding his connections at the Department of Justice for updates on the phone, and the latter leafing through one of the several outdated magazines from the magazine rack in the corner. Spencer could tell that Rossi wasn’t really _reading_ anything.

And Christopher Preston sat with his face in one of his hands, his other arm rested on a knee that hadn’t stopped bouncing since he decided to sit down. Like Spencer, he often got up to pace.

None of you really spoke in the waiting room—all in varying degrees of fear and frustration and feeling useless. 

As soon as word had reached the Director of National Intelligence and the US Department of Justice of everything that had happened—about who Samuel Boucher really was, about your relationship to him, about Alexander Marseille still at large—they had sent special forces to relieve the BAU from the case entirely.

None of them were to have any involvement until otherwise notified, and to try and do so would until that moment would result in severe disciplinary action for any of the agents.

And that only fanned the flames of everything that was brewing in Spencer. As soon as he had assurance that you would be alright, he was going to do everything in his power to get himself on the case, even if it meant going about it by himself.

Spencer had many regrets in his life, but in those hours, he came to realize more and more than his greatest regret was not killing Alexander in that room. And he still didn’t think Alexander was evil at his core; _you’d_ certainly not thought of him as so, and he trusted your judgement of character.

But Alexander was evil enough that Spencer wanted nothing more than to kill him. Slowly. Personally.

Ordinarily, such depravity would have terrified him, but he felt no remorse or sympathy for the younger Marseille brother. 

And Spencer vowed to himself in that waiting room that he would make sure Alexander knew the extent of his apathy.

For now, though, he paced back and forth in the waiting room, desperately trying to reign in his mind enough to try and calculate _something_ —maybe he could estimate where you’d been shot and the chances of survival from that alone?

No, he didn’t know nearly enough to even give him a shaky estimate because none of the _god damned hospital staff would tell him_ —

The door to the OR rooms opened, and a nurse in scrubs walked out with a tablet in hand. 

Derek quietly called his name, but Spencer ignored him as he beelined for the nurse. He didn’t speak as he approached her, and, as if expecting him, the nurse let out a quiet sigh.

“I still don’t have a definitive update for you, Dr. Reid,” she said.

And even though Spencer _knew_ that it wasn’t her fault, he couldn’t stop himself from snapping, “What kind of _incompetent staff_ —”

The nurse cut him off at the same time that Derek softly called his name. “Dr. Reid, it would be remiss of me to give you false hope. There was no exit wound. The bullet shattered two of her ribs and the surgeons are _still_ trying to remove the remaining fragments lodged in her chest cavity as well as trying to navigate a path to remove the bullet without leaving her with partial paralysis, as it’s trapped beside the base of her spine. She suffered severe pulmonary hemorrhaging, and she already coded once upon arrival. We were able to revive her within a minute, but it’s a wonder how she didn’t bleed out entirely before EMS got to her.” 

He heard the idle chatter and activity of the rest of the agents cease entirely at the nurse’s words. Spencer felt his own heart stop at even the mention of your “dying,” subsequent revival or no.

But the nurse must have seen him flinch. Her harsh countenance softened slightly, and she added, “That said, I can tell you that as of now, she is alive, and she is fighting to keep it that way. And we have an OB/GYN monitoring embryonic activity and blood flow to the uterus. We are doing what we can, Dr. Reid, and I _will_ let you all know if there is a significant change in her status. Let us do our job.”

And she walked away to the waiting room desk, talking quietly with the receptionist and leaving Spencer to stand in her wake.

And suddenly, the fluorescent lights became painful, the electric hum and buzz they emitted piercing through his skull like a blade. The sound grew to be deafening; he couldn’t hear or focus on anything else.

Spencer shut his eyes tightly and raised a hand to his face with a quiet groan, vigorously rubbing at his eye as if it could dull the pain. His vision grew spotty. His head throbbed.

Then there was a hand on his shoulder. “Reid, let’s get you some water,” Derek said.

Spencer exhaled sharply. “I’m fine, Morgan.”

“It wasn’t a suggestion.”

Spencer didn’t have the energy to protest as Derek slowly tugged him in the opposite direction of the surgical suites and down a different hallway. As he passed the seating area, he caught a glimpse of Rossi taking a seat across from Preston and leaning forward to brace his elbows on his knees. Rossi began quietly speaking to Preston, but Spencer couldn’t make out what he was saying.

He just shrugged Derek’s hand off his shoulder and followed him down the hallway. The two of them made a right before coming upon a small refreshment room inhabited by several vending machines against the back wall—one for a variety of waters and bottled teas, two for snacks, and another dedicated only to coffee. There was a small counter space with a sink, and a gray trashcan beside the door. The rest of the room was filled with a few round tables and plastic chairs strewn about.

And those damned fluorescent lights kept buzzing above his head.

His eyes went to the coffee vendor first.

Rationally, he knew that the caffeine would exacerbate the symptoms of his current anxiety, but it also might help sharpen his mind against his roaring thoughts. Yeah, he could go for some coffee.

As if reading his mind, Derek cleared his throat and said, “Water first.”

Spencer scoffed, but before he could retort, Derek’s phone began ringing in his pocket. Spencer’s mouth snapped shut as Derek brought it out of his pocket and glanced at the screen. 

Spencer could see a contact photo of Savannah displayed across the screen.

And despite your uncertain outcome, despite the fact that Spencer could barely think about anything other than your bloodied body lying on a stretcher, his face softened. “You should take that,” Spencer said. 

Derek looked between Spencer and his phone before nodding. He dug into his pocket and forced a five dollar bill into Spencer’s good hand. “Give me five minutes. Get yourself a bottle of water and something to eat, and don’t go anywhere.”

Spencer held back an irritated comment about how he didn’t need to be “mothered” by Derek and instead pressed his lips together and turned away. He heard Derek’s steps retreating from the refreshment room along with a quiet greeting to his girlfriend.

Then Spencer stared at the vending machines again.

The lights continued to buzz overhead.

His head continued to throb, now a growing ache behind the backs of his eyes.

He rubbed at his eyes again with the back of his good hand as he softly groaned to himself.

And Spencer realized that he couldn’t remember the last time he’d actually drunken water. He’d been asleep for several hours before calling you, and then…

Spencer shook his head to himself. He was dehydrated. Dehydration led to a decreased ability to concentrate for long periods of time, headaches, and fatigue. Water would help his brain work more efficiently than it was now.

He turned away from the coffee vendor and walked up to the drink machine, and he caught a glimpse of himself in the glass reflection.

He looked about as terrible as he felt. He supposed that was fitting.

Spencer sighed and fed the five dollar bill into the vending machine, wincing quietly as his injured wrist tried to bend with the movement. A bottle of water dropped from the machine, and four dollar bills were sent back out to him.

He shoved the bottle of water into the pocket of his flannel pajama pants and then moved aside to the snack machine.

Spencer wasn’t hungry, nor did he have a particular desire to eat anything. But he also hadn’t eaten anything since the morning while driving down from Long Island. 

And the vending machine had bags of almonds. He could probably force himself to eat them over a period of time whenever he felt like he could stomach it.

So he fed three dollar bills into the vending machine and pressed the combination for a bag of almonds.

The machine _whirred_ and pushed the bag forward, only for it to get caught between the glass and the shelf.

Spencer blinked at the machine.

Then he reached his good hand out and tapped on the glass to try and shake it down.

It didn’t budge.

He shoved the vending machine a little harder.

Nothing.

So he shoved it again. And again. And again. Even bringing his injured wrist into the fray. He ignored the sharp pain that shot up his arm as he did so, and he ignored Derek calling his name.

Derek sounded so far away, so muffled, in comparison to the buzzing lights and the deafening _nothingness_ in Spencer’s head.

And Spencer didn’t realize that he’d started crying until Derek sprinted back into the room and dragged him back from the machine, which had finally given up the bag of almonds several shoves ago.

“ _Reid,_ Reid, _stop it_ ,” Derek yelled as Spencer tried to shove his friend off of him.

And Spencer brought his hands to his face as his knees buckled under him. He sank to the ground, and Derek crouched down beside him as a shuddering sob lifted from Spencer’s throat.

“I’m quitting,” Spencer managed to choke out.

Derek froze. “What?” he breathed.

“I can’t… I can’t keep _doing this_ . Every time I _love_ someone, they…” He took a shaky breath as his face crumpled, and he drew his knees up to his chest, leaning his face down to bury it in them. His injured wrist stayed limp against the floor, but he raked his good hand through his hair. His nails scraped into his scalp.

“Reid, you can’t give up on her yet,” Derek said.

But Spencer ignored him. He answered into his knees, “If she doesn’t make it, I’m quitting.”

And even though the BAU was almost his entire life, even though it was what he knew he was meant for, even though he could not see himself working anywhere else, doing anything else, he meant it.

If _thi_ s was the cost of working for the BAU—if losing every single person he loved before he even got a chance to really love them—then he decided it wasn’t worth it.

He’d hunt down Alexander independently, and then…

Who knew. He didn’t really want to even imagine a life without you or the bureau.

So Derek said more softly, “She’s gonna make it.” But his words were uncertain, and Spencer knew that Derek didn’t even fully believe what he was saying.

And though Spencer was a man of facts and statistics and probabilities, he found that he could do nothing else than hope for what seemed like the impossible to happen.

***

This time when you looked up, you found yourself in the dark hallway of the second floor of the beach home. 

Your younger self was already out of her room. It was likely well into the middle of the night, and the sound of quiet arguing filtered through the otherwise silent space. The young version of yourself looked no older than eleven. There was leftover mascara smeared around her eyes, like she hadn’t been able to wash all her makeup off in the shower. She wore a matching set of light blue pajamas.

You remembered this night. This had been after a Monet Society event out on Montauk.

She sat against the wall, just to the side of the railing balusters, with her knees pulled up to her chin. Her expression was neutral—if mildly forlorn—as she listened intently to the argument downstairs.

And unlike the previous memory, you remembered this far more vividly—this moment, the biting words of your parents, the— 

Glass shattered somewhere in the house, like a paperweight or a wine glass fell to the ground.

Your father swore as your mother gasped sharply.

They didn’t even pretend to like each other for yours or Lizzy’s sake anymore. But they stayed married, because the alternative wouldn’t have fit with their image. It would have incited gossip, false rumors about affairs or other baseless trifles, to propagate through their social circles.

You remembered pretending you didn’t notice, that you didn’t see a difference between the loving couple and parents they were outside the home and the ever colder people they were when you all were alone with each other. You remembered pretending that the fact that you all still went to art museums, or ballet performances, or orchestra concerts on the weekends was enough proof of a whole family. You remembered believing that if you kept doing _more_ and achieving _more_ and kept being the family pride, they’d love you enough to tell you.

And you didn’t want to remember that.

You pulled against Lizzy’s hand and said, “I don’t want to watch more of this.”

“Just keep listening,” she mumbled quietly.

“ _No_.” And you yanked your hand from her entirely. You felt a sharp pain in your chest as you did, but you ignored it. 

You turned away from her and began walking down the hallway, away from Lizzy and from your younger self. The hallway grew darker and longer as you stomped down it.

Your breathing picked up as the hallway extended on, and on, and on, only plunging further into darkness.

Behind you, you could hear the frantic steps of Lizzy following you. “What’s your issue?” she called.

You ignored her, and as you kept going down the hall, the pain in your chest subsided. Instead, your body grew numb. You felt weightless. Warm. Tired.

You were so tired.

And then you felt a hand on your shoulder spin you around, and a chill wracked your spine. The dull pain in your chest returned. You felt your feet under your body again.

And despite the darkness surrounding the two of you, you saw Lizzy’s scrunched brows and deeply etched scowl. “Why are you so _desperate_ to continue lying to yourself like this?” she demanded.

You sucked in a breath. “I’m not—”

“What the hell are you even holding onto?”

“I’m—”

“You act like you lost something you never even _had_.”

“Liz, _sto_ —”

“ _They. Were. Bad. People._ ”

And that snapped something in you. You placed your hands on her shoulders and shoved her away from you. 

You regretted it immediately, but Lizzy barely reacted. She stumbled back a few steps and continued staring at you with the same irritated expression. She opened her mouth again to speak, but you cut her off.

“You’re fucking _dead_ ,” you choked out. “All three of you are _dead_ . And if I… if I remember them _like that_ , then what did I lose?” You took a sharp and shaky breath in. “I love you, Lizzy. I will always love and miss you. And I will always _hate myself_ for not being… not… not saving you,” you whispered through a growing lump in your throat. Your bottom lip quivered as you continued, “But I’ll always love them too, no matter what, because… because how can I _resent them_ after all these years when they died like _that_? When I couldn’t… save them, either.”

And Lizzy’s face at last softened. “I’ll always love them too,” she answered gently. “No matter how shitty they could be, they’re still our parents, but…” She shrugged. “You can love people and still acknowledge how they hurt you. Those things aren’t mutually exclusive. We were kids. We shouldn’t have felt like we needed a reason to be loved by them. And it wasn’t your responsibility to save us. They knew who they were friends with. They put us in that danger. It wasn’t your fault.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t know what to say.

Regardless of what she said, regardless of how many years had passed, you would always blame yourself for not being able to do more on that night, but… she was also right.

Somehow, in this odd space between time and space, between dream and wake, your baby sister still found ways to prove that she’d always been the smart one in all the ways that really mattered. 

And the gilded past and family you’d convinced yourself you’d had slowly melted into what it was: two sisters and two strangers who inhabited the same space. And no amount of wealth or facade or achievement could have fixed what was fundamentally broken.

But, still, you managed to say, “But it wasn’t always bad.”

And Lizzy gave you a sad smile. “No, it wasn’t. But them being decent parents fifteen-percent of the time doesn’t make up for being negligent the rest of the time.”

Your bottom lip wobbled again, and you turned your gaze downwards. You closed your eyes to keep tears from streaming down your face, and in a shaky voice, you whispered, “I’m so afraid of turning into them.”

Being able to say that truth aloud—even acknowledging it as a fear that floated in the deepest recesses of your mind—lifted a weight from your shoulders.

“You won’t,” Lizzy answered. “Wanna know how I know?”

You looked up and nodded slightly, and Lizzy smiled. She reached her hand out for you to take of your own volition, and you didn’t hesitate before placing your hand in hers. The two of you slowly began walking back in the direction you’d come, reapproaching that long repressed memory.

The words of your parents became clearer again.

“...it’s _embarrassing_. I’ll have my assistant call Elizabeth’s school and demand she be placed in a higher grade for the next school year,” your mother said harshly. 

“She’ll fail out. She already needs a tutor in nearly every subject,” your father argued back. “You can’t make a genius where there isn’t one. Just accept that. We have far more pressing things to worry about.”

“I told you _years ago_ that whatever _business_ you get into with Samuel _is your_ business. I don’t want to know, and frankly, I don’t particularly _care_ to know. Just as I don’t particularly _care_ to have a repeat of tonight. Next time someone asks about our daughters, we start with Elizabeth. Get the less impressive out of the way.”

On, and on, your parents went. Your father pushed back against your mother with scoffs, and the argument quickly returned to their work lives.

And you remembered how such comments about Lizzy were commonplace while growing up, about how often your mother seemed to compare the two of you as you entered your teenage years, about how cold she became towards the end.

And you turned your head to Lizzy, noticing how her eyes glazed over. “How did you not hate me?” you asked quietly.

Lizzy jutted her chin out towards your younger self but didn’t say anything.

And your childhood self stood from where she sat against the wall and silently walked past the two of you. Instead of turning into her own bedroom, she paused in front of Lizzy’s closed door.

Your parents were definitely loud enough to be heard through the crack at the bottom of the door. If Lizzy was awake, she’d have heard their comments.

Then your younger self wordlessly opened the door and stuck her head in. “Hey,” she whispered, “come hang out with me.”

There were a few beats of silence.

And then there was a quiet, “It’s one in the morning.” Lizzy’s young voice was thick with quiet tears. “I’m trying to sleep.”

“Then sleep in my room. I can’t sleep, and I’m bored.”

There was another pause before you heard a quiet sigh. “Okay,” Lizzy’s younger self said listlessly.

And the two of you watched as your young counterparts walked across the hall and into your childhood bedroom. You and Lizzy followed them, and you watched as young Lizzy slowly crawled under the sheets of your queen sized bed as your young self closed the door.

Then you turned to the bed and found young Lizzy sitting up. The darkness in the room obscured her tear-stained face. She sniffed quietly.

Your younger self opened her mouth to say something, but before she could, Lizzy interrupted and asked, “Can you play me something on the piano? I can’t sleep, either.”

Your parents’ voices still filtered in from underneath the door, their biting words still slightly audible.

And your young self nodded without hesitation. “Of course. Which piece?”

“The, um… the nocturne that I like.”

And you felt your breath hitch in your chest.

Your young self nodded again and made her way through the dark room to the upright piano in the corner. She pulled back the piano bench and gingerly sat down, feeling her way across the keys to the correct position.

That nocturne was seared into your mind since you were eight. You could have played it perfectly with your eyes closed.

And somehow, in the years of romanticizing your childhood, you’d forgotten the real reason that nocturne had become your sole source of comfort beyond all else. It wasn’t that it was your father’s favorite piece (it _was_ one of his favorite pieces to listen to you play while performing, but that wasn’t the reason it had grown to soothe you).

It was the piece that Lizzy asked you to play for her when she was sad as a child. She said it made her a little happier. So when she asked, you would play it as many times as it took until she felt better.

And Lizzy was often sad in her youth—until she became a teenager and developed more autonomy and less care for the stinging words of your parents.

And as the room filled with quiet music that drowned out those very words, Lizzy turned her head to look at you. One side of her lips quirked upwards into a smile, and she shrugged. “How could I hate you when you loved me enough for the both of them?”

And you couldn’t stop your face from crumpling, nor could you stop yourself from reaching out and pulling your sister into a hug. You buried your face into the crook of your neck as a sob lifted from your throat, and she breathed a laugh as she wrapped her arms around you, too.

And suddenly, you felt warmth all around you, and a refreshing breeze brushed through your hair.

You lifted your head up and squinted against the suddenly harsh bright light that shone down on you. The carpeted floor had turned into sand. The music had been replaced by the crashing of waves into the shore. And when you craned your head around, you saw the blue beach house behind you. 

Through the glass wall, you could see your parents again. Your mom sat at the kitchen island reading a book, while your father sat at the dining area table shuffling through papers. 

Lizzy pulled away from you a bit and rested a hand on your shoulder, squeezing.

You turned back to her.

She smiled again as she said, “Listen, I’ve gotta get going.”

“ _No_ ,” you choked, grabbing her free hand in yours. “Please. I can’t… I don’t want to lose you again.”

Lizzy shook her head. “You never lost me, idiot.” Then the smile faded from her face. She looked between you and the beach house, chewing on the inside of her cheek. “But… if you’re here… you could come with me, if you want. But if you do, you can’t go back.”

“Back to what?” you asked.

She squeezed your shoulder again. “You know. It’s up to you.”

And in the back of your mind, you _did_ faintly remember another life, another world, another reality that you’d barely gotten to truly experience the way it was supposed to be experienced, but it was hard to think about it when the sun was shining down on you, when the house was calling to you like a siren would a sailor, when you wanted nothing more than to be reunited with the people that had been stolen from you so violently.

Because despite what you’d learned about them, despite what you’d remembered, you still loved your parents. And you wanted to at least be able to say goodbye, to tell them what you’d done in the past fifteen years, to see for yourself if they were finally proud of you.

But if you walked into the house, you wouldn’t walk back out.

You turned your head around again and looked through the glass. You watched your mother flip the page of her book before sighing through her nose.

You wondered what she was reading. 

So you looked back at Lizzy, you peered at you with her head slightly tilted to the side. “Do you remember what Mom used to tell us when we were scared of something. It was when we were young. _Really_ young, before… before she really stopped being our mom?”

Lizzy understood instantly. She nodded and answered, “The world doesn’t stop moving just because you’re afraid, right?”

“But hope helps you move along with it. And if you lose sight of that, the world will leave you behind,” you finished.

Lizzy raised a brow as she nodded again. “What about it?”

And you glanced back at your mother again. “I think the world left me behind when all of you died. I thought… I thought I was catching up, but… I don’t know.”

“You can always catch up,” Lizzy answered. “It’s just up to you if you want to.”

And you looked at Lizzy for a few seconds before staring out into the ocean behind her. It would be high tide soon. The waves were already almost lapping at your feet.

And you kept staring out at the ocean as you quietly asked, “Can we just… sit here for a little bit?”

Lizzy’s eyes softened. “Yeah,” she said softly. “If that’s what you want, I can stay for a little while longer before you decide.”

And so the two sat down side-by-side in the sand, stretching out your legs and welcoming the cool rush of salt water that ebbed and flowed higher and higher with each pull of the tide. Neither of you spoke. You just grabbed Lizzy’s hand in the sand and waited as the water grew higher…

And higher…

And higher…

Until you were completely submerged.

And you allowed the tide to take you out to sea with one final sigh.

***

It was almost seven in the morning before the nurse from earlier walked back out into the waiting room.

Spencer bolted to his feet as the rest of the BAU turned their heads in the direction of the nurse. Spencer’s now empty bottle of water lay discarded at his feet. The bag of almonds remained completely untouched in his pajama pants pocket.

And Preston stopped bouncing his knee and froze at the sight of the nurse. Spencer could hear him take a sharp breath.

The nurse’s face was grave.

Spencer’s heart stopped beating, and he held his breath.

The nurse said, “Agent Hotchner, a word?”

Without hesitation, Hotch stood from his seat and strode over to the nurse. The two of them disappeared behind the double door.

Time ticked to a standstill as the team of agents waited for their leader to return. Preston swore under his breath and dragged his hands down his face again.

And after what seemed like an eternity, the doors opened again, and Hotch walked back out. His expression was unreadable.

His eyes scanned the waiting room, briefing pausing on a young pregnant woman who’d come in with a toddler and her husband about an hour ago, before they swept over the BAU.

And when he finally spoke, his voice was tight. “There will be funeral proceedings in two days,” was all he said.

And with those words, Spencer felt the rest of his heart and soul shatter into nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We’re nearing the final final chapters. There will be one more formal chapter in this fic, and then an epilogue (which will potentially be split into two parts. I’m not sure yet). I also don’t love love this chapter, but it was hard to write the second half of it on the iPad. The google doc that I write this fic in is well over 400 pages, so the typing was incredibly laggy, and the app kept crashing.
> 
> But like I said earlier, I wanted to get this chapter out as soon as I finished it, especially because of the last cliffhanger! 
> 
> Thank you all for reading :) I promise I’m not going to be too mean. Just trust me.


	37. Wild Nights! Wild Nights!

The ground was frozen in the cemetery out on Long Island, frigid winds blowing by and forcing chills down Spencer’s back, but despite the cold weather, the sky was clear. The sun glittered off the crests of small leftover piles of snow.

Spencer wished it was raining. Or hailing. Or at least cloudy. He thought it would be more fitting.

Instead, he helped hoist the casket out of the hearse alongside Christopher Preston, Hotch, Derek, Rossi, and Emily. JJ and Garcia trailed behind the rest of them as they carried your casket across the grass to the prepared grave. They were all dressed in black—even Garcia. 

And they couldn’t get you a plot beside your family; those plots had already been taken years ago. The best they could get, especially on such short notice, was a few rows down.

Spencer hated that it was the best they could do. He hated that he had to carry your casket down an aisle between tombstones to get to your grave. He hated that just a few days ago, he was imagining what it might be like for you to walk down an aisle of a different kind, not towards a grave, but towards him, surrounded by friends and family alike.

In those fleeting hours of bliss, when he fell asleep with you tucked into his side, he wondered if he should just ask you to marry him then and there. But between your child (Spencer’s jaw clenched in agony at even the mere thought of what might have been), and Boucher’s capture, he figured that it would be better to wait. To ease into this new confirmed thing between the two of you. To handle one thing at a time before twining your lives together in a way that no one could ever deny. And now…

And now he was here.

And though you were gone, you were still the only thing that occupied his thoughts—an echo that would never fade.

Then he heard Garcia let out a shaky sigh and JJ murmur something he couldn’t make out to her, and Spencer swallowed thickly. His grip around the handle tightened.

He’d cried enough at the hospital.

And then the eight of them arrived at your grave. The lowering device was already set up above the plot. 

They gently placed the casket on the device and took a step back. It wouldn’t start lowering until one of the graveyard staff came and unlocked the breaks. So instead, the eight agents stood around the grave and stared at your casket.

Several moments of silence passed. 

Then Hotch quietly asked, “Does anyone have anything they’d like to say?”

No one responded—not even Preston, who always had a well-timed quip ready for any occasion.

But the rest of the team took quick glances between Preston and Spencer. And Spencer hated that too, that they expected something from him.

After several moments of silence, Garcia sighed, “She was just starting to be a part of the family.” Her bottom lip wobbled as she spoke, and a tear rolled down her cheek. She quickly brushed it away.

“She’s still a part of it,” Derek answered, lifting a hand to place on her shoulder. His eyes, narrow with exhaustion and regret, were fixed on the casket.

Another silence settled over the eight of them.

Then Rossi asked Hotch, “You think the DoJ will ever let us help catch this bastard?”

Hotch didn’t respond at first. Then, so quietly that Spencer nearly had to lean forward to hear him, Hotch finally answered, “It’s unlikely. But that’s never stopped us before.”

He’d been staring at your casket, too, but his eyes flicked up and scanned the faces of each of the agents. They settled on Preston. 

Preston shoved his hands into his pockets. “I won’t say anything as long as I’m in on it, too. I wanna make that son of a bitch pay just as much as the rest of you.”

Hotch studied Preston. “You know her best,” was all he said.

Spencer also hated that Hotch was right.

And Preston managed to send a ghost of a wry smile in Hotch’s direction, but didn’t say anything else.

And they stayed there for a while, exchanging quiet sentiments to each other every now and then. Spencer didn’t partake in any discussion. He hadn’t felt like speaking much in the past two days. It was difficult to speak when the only person he wanted to talk to wasn’t beside him anymore. 

And despite the fact that Spencer was surrounded by his closest friends—his family—he’d never felt more alone in his life.

He supposed he’d have to get used to that again—loneliness.

And now that he’d experienced such fulfillment with you, such a state of being was like a viper that struck harder on the second blow. It was like venom that coursed through his veins as he clawed at his skin, desperate to carve it out with his own nails if he had to. It was like truly understanding what it meant to be hollow.

And as the rest of his team chatted in quiet voices and through forlorn sighs, Spencer looked up at the sky, at the beaming sun that mocked him with its joy, and he made a vow—that he was going to find Alexander Marseille. And _whe_ n he found Alexander Marseille, Spencer was going to make sure Alexander knew the extent of his hollowness.

But until then…

The agents finally left the cemetery after half-an-hour. Spencer, who had ridden alongside Morgan on the way to the cemetery, returned to his passenger side seat of Morgan’s car. He had to move his messenger bag, which had been resting on his seat since they’d arrived, so he could sit.

But the bag slipped from his hand and tumbled to the ground of the car. His bag popped open, and a book fell from the worn leather as the bag fell.

Spencer felt his heart flutter before it constricted.

 _The Complete Works of Emily Elizabeth Dickinson_ , read the title.

After the hospital, Spencer had returned to your apartment. He’d found your poetry book in your purse, alongside a framed picture of you and Elizabeth as young children, and the annotated copy of _Troilus and Criseyde_ he’d gifted you for Christmas.

And when he saw that you carried around his present with you, he had broke down into sobs in the middle of your apartment. 

Now, he carried your collection of Dickinson poems with him wherever he went, just so he’d be able to have _some_ part of you here with him.

So he bent over and slowly plucked up both the bag and the book from the car floor. He let the bag fall back onto the passenger’s side seat, but he turned the book over in his hands.

It was old and worn, with yellowing fragile papers. It was practically everything he loved aesthetically in a book; the wear and tear meant that it was a beloved copy of something, which meant that it was reread regularly. It was a symbol of love for the literature being devoured.

Spencer often thought that the most beautiful books were those which warranted such breakdown over time. 

And he thought your collection of Dickinson poems was the most beautiful book he’d ever seen.

But it looked wrong in Spencer’s hands. It _felt_ wrong to hold it in his hands.

And he couldn’t help but remember what he’d said to you on the phone—one of the last things he’d said to you before you’d been ripped from his life.

He said he’d read to you if that was what you wanted. He would have read aloud for the rest of his life if it meant making you smile.

But he was yanked from his thoughts from Derek softly calling his name. Derek had already settled into the driver’s side. Spencer hadn’t noticed at all.

Wordlessly, Spencer tucked into the car and placed the bag and book on his lap separately. His eyes stayed on the collection of poems.

Derek stuck the key into the ignition as he quietly asked, “What are you reading?”

Spencer didn’t answer Derek’s question in full. Instead he quoted, in a voice that was equal parts sorrowful and nostalgic, “It grieves me that you speak of death with so much expectation. I know there is no pang like that for those we love, nor any leisure like the one they leave so close behind them, but dying is a wild night and a new road.”

Derek didn’t respond.

Spencer didn’t look over at him as he continued. His voice was slow and quiet, so unlike his usual tendency for rambling. He said, “Emily Dickinson is her favorite poet. She once told me it was because Dickinson wrote for those who want to experience life in all its facets.” Spencer huffed a humorless laugh. “And to Dickinson, death is merely a part of life. The whole thing is almost a bit ironic, isn’t it?” He shrugged. “Dickinson wrote that in a letter to her cousin Perez Dickinson Cowan. I think Y/N would agree with her.”

And Derek still didn’t respond. He waited a few beats, studying Spencer, before quietly saying, “We’re going to get him, Reid. We _will_.”

And Spencer just nodded again. “Yeah,” he said, “we will.”

There was no alternative. And Spencer was going to make Alexander pay for tearing apart his family.

As Derek pulled out of his parking space, Spencer tightened his grip on the book and stared at the passenger’s side view mirror, watching the cemetery, then Long Island, then all of New York fade into the background.

 _Dying is a wild night and a new road_.

He supposed he agreed with Dickinson, as well.

So Spencer turned his gaze forward, towards the horizon, towards this lonesome path that he’d been forced on. Towards you, your child, and the eden you introduced into his life. 

Spencer supposed that he would have to learn to navigate this new wild road himself. So long as you were the destination, he was perfectly content to drive down the longest of roads, sail across even the most treacherous of seas, and climb the tallest of mountains.

So long as you were the destination, he would have done anything to make it back home without hesitation.

So he swore to himself that he would do everything in his power to see the three of you one day inhabiting that Eden together again.

And with that, Spencer embraced the ending of one life, and the beginning of the next.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I literally cannot believe that there’s only the epilogue left omg...
> 
> Thank you for reading<3
> 
> EDIT 2/17/21: I’m dividing the epilogue into two chapters, so there are two more chapters after this :)


	38. I Shall Not Live in Vain

_Five Years and Five Months Later_

_____

In the one and a half years that he’d been Director of the FBI, Christopher Preston had realized that he cared about nothing less than the ridiculous politics associated with his title. And it wasn’t about his duty to help see to the safety of the citizens of the United States; _that_ was one of the only reasons he’d applied for and accepted the position when the President and the Department of Justice offered it to him in the first place. He wanted to help fix everything Boucher had destroyed.

It was more so that he hated having to exert much of his time and energy in meetings about how to save face after over seventy agents had been found guilty of associating with the French mob over the past five years. That didn’t even include the several high profile politicians who were now _also_ sitting in federal prisons for the same reason. 

Preston didn’t care about saving face; the bureau and the United States government had failed to identify and deal with deep running corruption for years. In his humble opinion, he felt that the media slander and public scrutiny was more than warranted. He made such opinions known during press conferences, which ironically had led to him gaining something in the way of public favor while at the same time pissing off his higher ups.

Yeah, he hated the political part of his job.

But he still woke up every morning at the crack of dawn to do it, because despite his reservations about some of the natures of his position, he couldn’t really complain. The title gave him the opportunity to actually do what he cared about.

And Preston just cared about fixing the systems which led to such gross neglect in the first place. He cared about weeding out every single one of Boucher’s bastards in whatever position they’d weaseled their way into. He cared about tracking down Alexander Marseille and prosecuting him to the fullest extent of the law.

And on a random Thursday morning, on a disgustingly humid day in June, he could at least say that he aided with that third thing…

Sort of.

It had been two weeks since Alexander had at long last been tracked down by the BAU. When he was still in ViCAP, Preston spent a fair amount of time leading and working the investigation by himself, all while trying to avoid detection by the higher ups. At first, he was irritated at the lack of initiative on the BAU’s part, but he supposed he couldn’t hold it against them. They were the most polarizing unit in the FBI, and after Boucher’s corruption came to light, it had become even more so, especially because you had been a member.

Between that, all the bureaucratic nonsense that they went through, and the vindictive serial killers seeking vengeance on them seemingly every other day of the week…

Well, Preston was just glad that they were able to finally get the bastard.

He hadn’t been a part of the take-down. He hadn’t even _known_ about the latest and major developments that the case had gone through. Ever since he became Director, the BAU started withholding information about the case from him. And even though he couldn’t entirely blame them for that either, not knowing precisely what was going on, especially when it came to _that,_ was especially off-putting.

On the other hand, though, not actually knowing anything about the takedown itself saved him from having to either lie or reveal the fact that he knew much about the case when he was questioned by the Attorney General about it.

But even still, two weeks later, Preston still had a job to do. 

He just didn’t anticipate having to attend the third meeting in the questioning of someone who had grown to be something of a friend of his.

Dr. Spencer Reid was the last person he’d expected to be under investigation, but Preston would also be lying if he said that he wouldn’t have acted the _exact same way_ if given the chance, even at the cost of killing what could have been an excellent source of information for mob activity.

Alexander Marseille deserved every bullet.

Preston just hoped that the BAU’s reputation would help speed the process along. Until the Attorney General and Preston cleared him, Spencer wouldn’t be able to do the thing all of this had led to.

Frankly, Preston wasn’t sure when or if he’d get the opportunity any time soon, either. He knew nothing other than what had been told to him on that day nearly five and a half years ago, and being the Director did not automatically make him privy to all information and confidential databases. He didn’t know how long any of them would have to wait, nor did he know _if_ it would actually happen. He’d been restless for the past two weeks, finding himself lying awake at night with his mind racing. He just wanted to _know_.

God, he hated not knowing everything that went on in the bureau. 

But all he could do was hope. That was all he’d been able to do during these past years, after all, even when deadends in the case led him towards the opposite.

So on that random Thursday morning in June, when Preston walked into the air conditioned lobby of the J. Edgar Hoover building (the building in which he spent much of his working hours and which, as Director, he oversaw, only occasionally making trips to the academy in Quantico to meet with the unit chiefs and leaders), the last thing he expected was for it to happen unexpectedly, without any warning whatsoever. 

Preston walked past security in the lobby, shouldering his gym bag as he waved “good morning” to them with the friendliest smile he could muster, just as he did every morning. His hair was still damp from his post-workout shower. 

He rode the elevator up to the top floor and nodded a greeting towards his assistant before striding down the long hallway to his own office. The soles of his loafers clicked against the floor.

And when he approached at last, he found that his office door was already ajar.

Every alarm in his head went off.

Jonas, his assistant, hadn’t indicated that he had a meeting this morning in his office. Spencer’s investigation meeting would take place in a few hours in a more formal setting. There wasn’t a reason that someone would be in his office this early.

So Preston rested a hand on the top of the gun on his hip as he slowly nudged the old mahogany door open.

And he froze on the spot entirely.

Standing by the window was a woman wearing a red sundress. She was holding a toddler—a little girl, Preston realized quickly—on her hip. The girl had her head resting against the woman’s shoulder. Her back was to the door.

And then he heard quiet talking. 

The woman pointed at something outside the window as she spoke.

Preston knew that voice. He knew that voice well.

In his state of shock, his gym bag slid from his shoulder and fell to the ground.

You whirled around to find the source of the noise.

The toddler picked her head up from your shoulder and stared at him.

At the sight of his wide eyes and slack-jawed face, you slowly smiled and said, “Hey, sweetheart.”

And after several moments of silence during which Preston failed to come up with _anything_ to say, he huffed an incredulous laugh and hoarsely responded, “Hey.”

All his hoping hadn’t been for naught after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to say that when I originally conceived of this story idea and plotted out the main points and the ending that I had only seen about two or three seasons of Criminal Minds. At the time, I didn’t know this was already something that happened in the show with Emily lol
> 
> I decided to not put this in the official epilogue and instead made it its own chapter. So the epilogue will be after this chapter and then... a;skdjfa;lksdjf
> 
> Thank you for reading :)


	39. EPILOGUE: Since I Hoped, I Dared

You and your daughter arrived in Virginia exactly fifteen days after the US Marshal that was assigned to your case, Marshal Tabitha Ronan, gave you the big update on the search for Alexander Marseille. Marshal Ronan had advised you to wait before going home, to see if there were any surprise developments that might come about in the few months after, but you were done waiting.

You hated the fact that you’d been put in that position in the first place. Had you known what was happening, you would have put a stop to it immediately.

But the decision had been made for you.

You’d been informed of everything when you woke up from surgery—or, several days after surgery. You hadn’t woken up immediately when the anesthesia was lifted. And during that time, you had been transferred out of the United States to a hospital in Vancouver, where you met Marshal Ronan for the first time. She was one of several marshals that oversaw citizens in Witness Protection in the Pacific Northwest of the United States.

Because of the nature of _your_ case, however, they wanted you out of the country. In your condition, they hadn’t wanted to move you overseas, so they stuck you in western Canada, right by the border.

And when you were finally lucid and strong enough to even just open your eyes for extended periods of time, Marshal Ronan told you what you needed to know.

During the tail end of your surgery, the hospital security system had been hacked into. Suspected mob affiliates brought their families into the hospital with them to try and provide civilian cover. The nurse in charge was notified and informed Hotch of the current threat, and he had made the decision to proclaim that you’d died. Once the hospital was secured again several hours later, Hotch had informed the team of the truth.

And, after several inquiries to the US Marshals Service, and after Hotch made several calls to the Attorney General, they decided that the threat to your life was still imminent were you found to be alive while Alexander still ran the mafia. And if a key witness—which you were—in such a high profile case was deemed to be in imminent danger, that witness could be required by the bureau to go into the Witness Protection Program. The US Marshals Service made quick arrangements with the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, and your unconscious battered body had been transferred out of the country as soon as you were stable enough for travel.

And so you found yourself in that hospital in Vancouver, and as soon as you were well enough to leave the hospital, you would assume a new identity in your new town: Osoyoos—Canada’s only arid desert.

You didn’t believe it at first. Your vision still blurry from the morphine coursing through your veins, you almost laughed at Marshal Ronan.

And when you finally realized that, no, this was not another coma-induced dream, you were so furious that you tried _several times_ to contact the BAU just to curse them out.

But there was security posted by your door, and a nurse that came back around every half hour.

Rationally, you knew that this was simply the protocol for witnesses in cases dealing with organized crime, and you also knew this was likely for the best. You would have been a liability if working on the case, especially while injured and vulnerable.

But that didn’t make you resent them any less for shipping you away while you were fucking unconscious.

And you had sworn that when you were recovered, there would be hell to pay.

But recovery had not been as easy or simple as you’d hoped. In those first weeks, it had been excruciatingly painful to move even the tiniest bit. And you had been informed that, because of the proximity of the bullet to your spine, you had sustained minor spinal cord injuries that left you in physical therapy for almost two years at a small clinic in Osoyoos.

Not to even mention that you were still pregnant throughout all of this.

For a while, you wondered if it was a blessing or a curse. Healing from such major surgery and learning to walk properly again was made infinitely more difficult when you were carrying around an ever growing amount of extra weight. And when you didn’t make progress in your recovery as quickly as you had wanted you, you would feel that ebbing darkness spread through your chest.

You really, _really_ hated hospitals.

But then you went into labor at thirty weeks, underwent an emergency c-section, and met your daughter through the glass pane of her incubator in the NICU. You remembered sitting beside her in a wheelchair soon after you’d finished surgery and watching her tiny chest rise and fall with the aid of a ventilator.

You hadn’t known what to feel. If there was something you were _supposed_ to feel. 

She was just so small. So fragile. 

And as she started growing, as she no longer needed a ventilator to breathe, as her features developed more and revealed Spencer’s familiar button nose and soft brown eyes, and you were assured that she would be alright…

Well, you didn’t know anything other than that you loved her with every fiber of your being. That you’d always love her. That you were so, _so_ thankful that she’d somehow made it through everything that had happened.

And some of that darkness fizzled away in the presence of the light she brought to you.

And on her first night out of the hospital, when you were alone in your new two bedroom house right on the edge of Lake Osoyoos, cradling her in your arms while she slept, you promised her that you’d never make her question whether or not you loved her. That she’d never have to prove to herself that she was worthy. That you would be the parent you wished you’d had when you were just as tiny and vulnerable as she was now—never lying, never putting her within the vicinity of danger if you could help it, never making her believe that she needed a reason to be loved.

And as the years passed, as you tried to document every “first” and every birthday and every moment that you just thought special enough on a camera you’d bought, you found that raising her was simultaneously the most difficult thing you’d ever done and the easiest.

Such a paradox was probably due to the fact that she seemed to have taken after both you and Spencer with regard to her cognitive development.

She was speaking in full proper sentences by the time she was three, and could add and subtract large numbers. And by the time she was four, she understood the more complex nuances of the English language and used metaphorical language with increasing ease. And her reading level was far beyond that of the average four-year-old. So there was never a dull moment.

Still, she was a child. She could read a chapter book with ease, but still couldn’t tie her shoes. She could hold her own in a conversation without deviating from the subject, but sometimes she still cried out of frustration when she couldn’t zip up her jacket by herself. She could recite long passages of text to you from memory, but she still needed you to cut up her food for her because she couldn’t hold a fork and knife properly.

And some days had been harder than others. Some days you’d lie awake at night after a day of tantrums and tears and wonder if the BAU had forgotten about you. If Spencer had. If you’d ever get to return to your real life to reclaim your identity and continue doing the job you loved.

But some days the two of you had also fallen asleep in a pillow fort you’d built in the living room, the floor covered in comforters and blankets, after she’d drifted off while you read her poem after poem in a soft voice, because she always asked for you to read to her, and you would never deny her that simple joy. And when you had smoothed the hair from her face and settled down beside her, closing your eyes as the gentleness of sleep claimed you too…

It was hard to resent anything about your life in those moments.

And you had hope that one day you’d be able to go back home and return to the job that, despite everything that had happened, you still loved. That Spencer would get to meet his daughter, and she’d finally have a father in her life. That you could be the family that she deserved to have.

And now you were finally here.

You’d first gone to see Preston early in the morning the day after you arrived back home. You’d stayed in a hotel in DC for the night, not wanting to deal with your apartment quite yet, and had gone over everything with your daughter again—the same story you told her when she was old enough to ask why she didn’t have a father.

You’d told her what you could without letting her know about the truest evils the world had to offer—that both you and her dad were agents on secret missions. When she asked about _his_ “mission,” you’d just told her that Spencer was off trying to find the bad guys. And when she asked what _your_ “mission” was, you’d scooped her out of the chair she was sitting in and spun her around while she shrieked and giggled.

“To keep _you_ safe, _duh_!” you’d told her.

You had been worried that she would grow up feeling like she was missing something integral to her life, but she was pretty convinced that both you and Spencer were real life superheroes.

But in the hotel, she’d cried over the fact that you would be moving back to Virginia. She didn’t want to leave Osoyoos. She didn’t want her life to change.

Perhaps the thing most indicative of the fact that she was just a young child was the fact that she was severely upset by any major change. If she knew the whole story, perhaps she would be more agreeable, but you would try to keep that truth from her until you couldn’t possibly anymore.

She still looked at the world through delicate glass eyes, uncracked by the horrors that lurked beneath the surface of beauty. You wanted to keep it that way for as long as you possibly could. So if moving from Osoyoos was the _worst_ thing that could happen to her right now, if she would be “angry at you until forever” like she said she would be, you were okay with that.

And in Preston’s new shiny office, after introducing him to your daughter and catching up, and after you’d gotten over your shock at the fact that he was now the Director of the whole fucking FBI, he’d given you a brief rundown of the case. And when there was no possible way for the two of you to discuss it in child-friendly language anymore, he’d just handed you the case report to read while he showed your daughter around his office.

And you’d learned that the BAU had learned of a breakthrough found by the DoJ and had figured out the rest themselves. Alexander, who’d gone deep into hiding, was found in Louisiana. The new BAU, now led by Emily, tracked him to a warehouse where several girls were being prepared for overseas shipment. 

And Spencer had gone against Emily’s orders of staying with the girls as they were being rescued. He left them in the care of Matt Simmons—a name you vaguely remembered—and had been the one to finally find Alexander, who was injured and bleeding from an earlier shootout. Spencer had killed him in “self-defense” by emptying two clips worth of bullets into him.

That had been a shock in and of itself. You supposed you would talk more about _that_ later, when your daughter wasn’t sitting in a chair beside you and reading through the book she’d brought with her—a _National Geographic_ animal encyclopedia for kids—but even after everything that had happened, you couldn’t help but feel a pang in your chest over the fact that Alexander was now dead.

And at this point, it had nothing to do with the fact that you’d once loved him. It was more so a sadness over the death of the once sweet boy you knew in your youth. And you couldn’t find it in you to blame him for ending up the way he did; he’d been groomed into that life since birth.

At the same time, you breathed a sigh of relief at the fact that you could finally have your life back.

And then Preston had to leave for a meeting with Spencer and the Attorney General. Preston assured you that he would try and move it along as quickly as he could, that it was the last meeting and Spencer was likely to be cleared, and that he’d tell Spencer you were back now afterwards.

In the meanwhile, you showed your daughter around DC for a bit before heading to Quantico in a rental car to see the rest of the remaining team and to meet the new members.

Your daughter dozed in the backseat the whole ride there.

And you arrived at the academy around 5pm, the warm June sun glittering off of the windows of the towering building. You parked by the entrance and pulled the key from the ignition, snatching your purse from the passenger’s seat and walking around to the side to get your daughter.

“We’re here,” you said softly as you tapped her shoulder and started unbuckling her from her car seat.

Her face scrunched up with a yawn, and she blinked a few times against the sun streaming into her car. She leaned forward in her seat, peering up at the academy, before looking back at you. “ _That’s_ where you work?” she asked, a hint of awe seeping through her tone.

You nodded as you lifted her from her seat and placed her on the concrete. She adjusted the straps on the light blue slip dress she wore on top of a white t-shirt. Then she leaned down to fix the Velcro strap on one of her sneakers.

“Mhm,” you answered as you took her tiny hand in yours and locked the car. “And my job is _way_ cooler than anything in Osoyoos.”

You realized that you’d likely have to be officially reinstated into the bureau and that the next few months (or, if you’d were lucky, several weeks) would be a nightmare of paperwork and reevaluations. But, for now, you were just happy to finally be back.

And she narrowed her eyes and glared up at you. “Not true. Osoyoos is more cool. It has a special ecosystem, and it even has its own _climate zone_. Do you know what it’s called?”

You _did_ know, but you shook your head as you led the two of you into the lobby and towards the elevator. 

She continued, “It’s called the ‘Osoyoos Arid Biotic Zone.’” She said it slowly, sharply enunciating each syllable as if trying to ensure that the rounded and clumsy manner of speech that all young children had didn’t obscure the name. “Virginia doesn’t have that,” she huffed.

You made a noncommittal hum in response as the elevator reached the BAU’s floor. The two of you stepped out of the elevator and…

You froze right outside.

She looked up at you in question.

Then you took a deep breath and started walking again—across the hall and through the familiar glass doors that you never knew you could miss as much as you did.

The bullpen was empty save for two people standing around the main desks.

JJ was the one who noticed you first. She stood up straight from where she was leaning against your old desk, and her eyes widened.

Rossi, who had his back towards you, turned around and spotted you.

JJ’s face split into a smile as she strode towards you across the bullpen and pulled you into a tight hug. Rossi quickly made his way over to do the same.

“God, it’s good to see you again,” JJ breathed as she released you. “Marshal Ronan gave us a call to tell us you’d be coming back, but…”

“We didn’t think we’d see you for a while,” Rossi finished. He put a hand on your shoulder. “We missed you.”

You tried to swallow the lump in your throat. “I missed you guys, too,” you managed to say. Then you cleared your throat. “I’m… _so happy_ to finally be back.”

JJ smiled again, and then looked down. You followed her gaze to where your daughter had taken to hiding behind your legs. She peered up at JJ and Rossi, and you felt her hands grip the skirt of your dress.

Gone was the girl proudly boasting a fact just mere moments before. She was painfully shy, and the fact that she’d had a long day and had her nap in the car interrupted likely didn’t help.

JJ crouched down to be eye-level with her, and you moved your hand to the back of her head to try and coax her forward.

“Hi,” JJ said softly. “I’m JJ. What’s your name?”

She didn’t answer.

Then Rossi’s phone buzzed, and he took it out of his pocket, glancing at the screen. His face tightened. “Listen,” he started, and JJ stood back up to look at him. “Prentiss and the rest of the team went to DC with Reid this morning. She figured having fewer people to meet you here would be better, but they’re on their way back. Prentiss just texted and said they’ll be here in five.”

Your heart rate picked up at his words.

You’d spent so long thinking about this moment, the moment you’d finally return, that it didn’t feel quite real to you. Even more, you’d spent so long wondering what it might be like to see Spencer again.

You looked down at your daughter again and swallowed thickly. 

JJ gently said, “Do you… do you want me to hang out with her for a bit so you can talk with Spence? I can just take her into Emily’s office, and you can wait in the briefing room.”

“I can wait out here and let him know where to find you,” Rossi added.

Talking with him first would probably be for the best.

You hesitated before nodding and then crouched down beside your daughter. She was forced to let go of your dress, and her eyes darted between you and JJ in mild panic.

You’d never left her with anyone before—never a babysitter, or a daycare, or anything. There hadn’t really been a need to, and frankly, you were terrified of being found by the mob. You didn’t trust anyone else to watch her. And she hadn’t started school yet, and when she did, she’d likely be a few grades ahead already. 

But you trusted JJ, and your daughter was going to have to get used to there being other people in your lives, now.

So you reached out and took both her hands in yours. “Can you go with JJ for a little bit? I need to do some things alone.”

She didn’t respond, but her furrowed brows and pout gave you answer enough.

So you reached into your purse and handed her the animal encyclopedia she’d been reading earlier at Preston’s. “You can point out all the animals that we saw in Osoyoos and tell her about them.”

She was going through an animal phase, and at the prospect of delving into her interest with someone new seemed to appeal to her. So she slowly took the book from your hand and looked up at JJ.

JJ held out her hand with a warm smile, and after several moments of hesitation, your daughter took a few slow steps towards her and reached up for her hand.

The two of them walked towards Hotch’s old office—Emily’s, now, you realized—and you sucked in another breath.

Rossi nodded in your direction and leaned against the desk closest to him. “It wasn’t a light decision to send you away with no warning,” he said. “The DoJ wouldn’t give an alternative, but none of us wanted to make that choice for you, especially without at least saying ‘goodbye’.”

You’d gotten over your anger after the first month or so of giving birth, but a part of you still twisted at the mention of it. You knew that it would be a longer conversation for another time, so you just said, “I know.”

Rossi continued, “But it tore the kid up inside the most. It hasn’t been easy for him these past five years.”

You supposed that made two of you, but Rossi’s words carried an added weight, like there was more to that tidbit of information than he was leading on.

But you just nodded again with a tight smile before heading over to the briefing room, entering and closing the door behind you.

Once there, you stood by the round table, and for a few moments, all your worries dissipated in the presence of overwhelming nostalgia. It was still set up the same way, but the tech had been significantly updated. There were a few mobile cork boards and whiteboards around the room with photographs and case information on them. 

You walked up to one of the boards and read through the information, running your fingers along the rough surface of cork. 

It had been a simple case—a series of home invasions and subsequent murders of single men and women between the ages of thirty and thirty-seven alone in their homes. Valuables had been stolen in each invasion.

You assumed that the team had already solved the case, but you’d missed the thrill of the job, the ability to do real good in the world, the chance to stop real life monsters. You couldn’t stop your mind from going through all the possibilities. Clearly the assailant had needed money of some kind, but the consistent murder told you that there was likely a vendetta against the home owners. Perhaps it was a debt-collector sending out a worker to collect on those who hadn’t paid, or— 

The door of the briefing room opened swiftly, and you jumped in surprise.

And you locked eyes with Spencer standing in the doorway—eyes wide, face slightly flushed, a bit breathless. It was like he’d sprinted across the bullpen.

But there was something different about him. Gone were his usual sweaters. Instead, he was dressed in a suit. His hair had grown out again into wild fluffy waves. Stubble peppered his jaw.

He looked older than when you last saw him. Tired. You knew the look.

And while something inside you had healed over these past five years, it seemed as if something had finally broken in Spencer.

But you decided that was a conversation for another time. 

Instead, you said a quiet, “Hi.”

And as if your voice broke some sort of trance he was in, his lips pressed together tightly, and he looked down. Even from that angle, you could see his face crumpling.

“Spencer,” you called softly, taking a step towards him.

He sucked in a shaky breath and responded with a choked, “I’m sorry.” His voice was quiet and strained, like it was taking every ounce of energy within him to keep from breaking down completely.

“What are you sorry for?” you asked. You took another step closer to him.

He dragged a hand down his face, pausing briefly to rub at his eye. “I didn’t… it… it took so long,” he whispered. “I didn’t think it would take this much time, and… and…” he trailed off before letting out a shuddering breath.

So you took another step towards him, and then another, and then another—until you were standing just a few inches in front of him. You lifted your hand and gently placed it on the side of his face, sweeping a thumb across his cheek to catch a falling tear.

And, your voice thick and your own eyes watering, you murmured, “But you did it, and I’m back.”

He nodded against your hand and finally glanced back up at you. His eyes swept over your body as if searching for any sign of harm or distress before he tried, “Can… can I…” He trailed off again.

But you understood. You nodded and opened your arms to him, and he quickly swept you up into his own, burying his face into the crook of your neck as you wrapped your arms around his neck. 

“I missed you,” he whispered into your skin. “Every day, I missed you.”

“I missed you, too.”

And the two of you stayed like that for several moments, in each others’ arms, silent tears streaming down faces, hearts united once again at last.

And when you could finally stand to pull away, he let one hand linger on your waist, the other coming up to cup the side of your face.

You leaned into his touch with a teary smile. Then you turned into his hand and pressed your lips against his palm, murmuring a soft, “And I still love you just as much as I did five years ago.”

His hands were trembling where they rested on you, and he whispered back, “I love you, too. And…” He sniffed and cleared his throat. “Um… Preston… he told me that you went to see him this morning, and you… you brought…”

You smiled softly. “She’s in Prentiss’ office with JJ.”

His eyes widened. “We… we had a girl?” he breathed.

You supposed Preston didn’t say much other than that you were back with your child.

So you nodded. “Yeah,” you said, “we did.”

And for the first time in the interaction, a smile split across his face, and he huffed a quiet incredulous laugh. His eyes, originally weary, had lit up. “What did you name her?” His voice was still quiet.

“You can ask her yourself,” you answered. “If you feel… ready to meet her, or—”

“Yes,” he cut you off. “Yes, I want to meet her. More than… more than anything, I…” He let out another quiet laugh. “Can I… now?”

You smiled again. “Yeah, let me just… tell her first, okay?”

Spencer nodded, and you took his hand in yours as the two of you walked out of the briefing room and towards Emily’s office. You glanced into the bullpen and found Emily and Rossi chatting with three unfamiliar faces.

Then Emily looked over at you and Spencer and smiled fondly. The three new agents looked over as well.

There would be other times to meet them formally, to catch up with Emily and JJ and Rossi independently and discuss all that needed to be said.

So you paused outside of Emily’s office, right at the window beside the door, and turned to Spencer. “I’ll call you in when she’s ready, okay?”

He nodded rapidly, and when you extracted your hand from his, he quickly ran his fingers through his hair and fiddled with the lapels of his jacket with nervous energy.

You opened the door and stepped into the room, and you found JJ sitting on the floor with your daughter. Her book was open to a page about amphibians.

JJ looked up at you, and you nodded.

She smiled before getting to her feet. Your daughter looked between you and JJ before she turned her gaze back to her book and flipped the page. And as JJ walked out of the room, where you could hear her speaking quietly with Spencer, you sat down beside your daughter.

“Hey,” you said quietly, reaching for her hands so that she’d face you. When she looked back up at you, you continued, “I know it’s been a really, _really_ big day. You’re probably really tired, right?”

She nodded.

“We can go back to the hotel soon, but there’s one really special person I want you to meet.” You tried your best to keep the waver out of your voice. Your heart began racing again. “Remember when I told you that your dad was on a secret mission, just like me?”

She nodded again.

“Well, he just came back, and he _really_ wants to meet you. Is that okay?”

She stared at you in silence for a few beats before nodding yet again.

And you breathed a sigh of relief. As much as you desperately wanted Spencer to meet her, you wouldn’t have let him if she wasn’t ready. But she was okay with it, so you smiled and leaned forward to give her a kiss on the forehead.

Then you cleared your throat and softly called, “Spencer, you can come in.”

And almost immediately, Spencer’s tall frame filled the doorway. He sucked in a sharp breath as his eyes fell on her, and he pressed his lips together to conceal the wobble in his bottom lip.

She took a step back and hid behind your back, only poking half of her face out around your arm to keep an eye on him.

Spencer noticed and took a few steps towards you until he was a few feet away. Then he slowly kneeled down to her level.

You lifted your arm and wrapped it around her back, trying to coax her forward. “It’s okay,” you murmured. “Can you say ‘hi’?”

She looked up at you before glancing at Spencer quickly. She dug the toe of her sneaker into the floor and looked down. “Hi,” she mumbled.

But Spencer was unfazed. “Hi,” he whispered back. “I’m Spencer. I’m your… your dad.”

She nodded.

“Can I… can I ask what your name is?”

And she looked back up at you instead of answering. You nodded in encouragement and swept a hand over her back.

Then she turned back to Spencer. She was silent for a few moments before quietly answering, “My name is Hope.”

Hope Elizabeth.

When you learned that you’d be having a girl, you had initially planned on naming her directly after your sister. But when you met her, you decided against it. You wanted her to have her own identity—to not be a reminder of what you lost, but a reminder of the beautiful thing you gained.

So you named her Hope—for the thing that helped you catch up with the world after unspeakable tragedy, for the little kernel inside you that never died, for the thing that made you decide to stay.

Hope—for the thing with feathers, that perches in the soul, and sings a tune without the words, and never stops at all.

Spencer’s eyes softened, and he smiled and said, “That’s a beautiful name. It’s nice to meet you, Hope. I’ve… I’ve been waiting a really long time to meet you.”

And she whispered, “Me too.”

Spencer’s smile widened, and his eyes brimmed with tears. He quickly blinked them away and softly cleared his throat, turning his gaze down to the open book on the ground. “Is this yours?” he asked. “Amphibians are _very_ cool. Do you have a favorite?”

You couldn’t stop your own smile from spreading across your lips, because you knew that it was the perfect question to ask her.

Hope finally perked up a bit and nodded. “The tiger salamander.”

And even though Spencer likely knew every single thing there was to know about the tiger salamander, he said, “ _Oooh_ , that’s a good one. Can you tell me a little bit about them?”

Hope beamed and took a step forward, plopping down to sit in front of the book.

And as she began rattling off all the facts she knew about tiger salamanders, you leaned back on your hands and watched them interact.

You knew that there were a million other things you had to do before your life could return to any semblance of normalcy, that it would likely be an exhausting and complicated process to get there, but for now, you cared about nothing other than this moment.

For the first time in your adult life, you saw a bright future, one that illuminated even the darkest corners within you. And though it did not negate everything that had ever happened to you, though it did not take away all your pains and burdens of the past, it was a constant reminder that you were more than what you had been through.

It served as a reminder that you loved and were loved, and you no longer felt like you needed to prove to yourself that you deserved such things.

For you had found a new source of light, an eden through which to row instead of the tumultuous sea that once tried to drown you, and you would never let them be taken from you again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO THEORETICALLY THERE’S SUPPOSED TO BE A SEQUEL TO THIS.
> 
> I actually conceived of the idea for the sequel before “Wild Nights,” but I realized that there was way too much background that needed its own story. So yes there’s supposed to be a sequel! The story is not over.
> 
> That said, I’m not entirely sure I have the mental capacity to write the sequel right now. To be honest, I’m probably just going to start posting it in like two weeks, but there’s no guarantee. I still have to officially plot it out (if I do end up writing it).
> 
> So be on the look out for that maybe! If you want easier updates on that, you could follow my Wattpad @persephonesgrace (which I don’t say lightly, bc I generally dislike Wattpad as a fan fiction writing platform, but the social aspect of it is much easier than ao3, and it’s much easier to get updates out to readers on there).
> 
> Thank you all so much for your support and love on this fic! I hope you loved it as much as I loved writing it :)
> 
> All my love,  
> Char


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